And Never The Chain Shall Meet
by Sketchpad
Summary: When Meg finds material for a report on Black History Month, she discovers that Nathanial Griffin wasn't the only black ancestor in the family who lived a life of greatness. Meet "May" Griffin!
1. Prologue

Prologue_-_

"Meg!" her mother, Lois, called from the kitchen. "When do you have to turn in that report for school?"

Alone in the living room, Meg angled her head up a bit to direct her answer back while keeping her eyes locked onto the latest amateurish dreck that passed for television on the Sci-fi Channel, now simply known as _Syfy_.

'_It should be a crime to show movies _this_ bad,' _she thought idly.

"In two weeks, Mom," she said, settling back into a more rag doll-like posture indicative of the American Couch Potato.

"Well, don't forget. The last thing we need is a New England race riot because the white kids at school didn't do _their_ part on Black History Month."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Meg said nonplused. "History may fade, but guilt never does. I've got time to come up with something by then."

"Okay, Sweetie."

Disconsolate, Meg slumped a little lower in the couch after the lie she told. She didn't have many ideas floating in her head concerning the report. They were either half-formed or simply not there, and two weeks flew deceptively fast for the uncommitted.

"Well, I got nothing," she groused to herself. With a sigh, she knew that it wouldn't be so easy this time.

Gone were the halcyon days when she could count on George Washington Carver or Martin Luther King, Jr. to bail her out of a possible bad grade, and the oft despised mark of the teacher's red pen.

She admitted to herself that that was the easy way out back then, but today didn't make things any _less_ easy, and that was, oddly, the point.

These days, a lazy, yet enterprising youngster could get all the information he or she wanted via _Google,_ and might even have the temerity to write the whole article down, verbatim, and pass it off as the report.

Such blatant plagiarism didn't appeal to her as much as it might have her contemporaries. In the back of her mind and, it seemed, in the bottom of her heart, such duplicity made her feel small, and only served to cheapen her subject's memory.

What were needed now were new subjects to touch upon. To hear her classmates tell it, the only black people of any stripe besides rap stars were George, Martin, or even Michael…Jackson, Jordan _or_ Vick, and that would have been the opinion of most of the _black _students.

Meg thanked her lucky stars that she didn't need to solicit the advice of _any_ of the pop-culture addled, video game addicted students. She just mentally squared her shoulders and continued to ruminate. She knew what would happen, should she fail.

If a black kid did or didn't do the assignment, the outcome would have just been either a passing or failing mark. But something else awaited the _white _kid who didn't do the assignment, as damning, as it was implied.

This was, she understood, part and parcel with being a white American student in the post-Civil Rights Movement Era, to, in essence, pay tribute to the black community, by marginally learning something about its culture, as she knew the school would do.

With guilty looks being the punishment of choice for those who didn't uphold their end of this unspoken social contract, it wasn't too bad a deal, as unspoken social contracts went, but it did become a bit of a chore when one's heart wasn't in it.

And it wasn't as though Meg's heart wasn't in it, she just didn't know how _not_ to make it look so sadly clichéd and obviously rushed, as so many others had been in the past. She was a senior now, and for her, this one had to be special, a personal best.

She blanked out in thought, almost reaching a meditative state, and so, was barely listening to the commercial that was playing just then.

"…You can find out more about your family's history with ," the friendly voiceover offered.

The spark of an idea wasn't long in coming. A corner of her mouth curled up into an embarrassed smile that she didn't think of the fact _sooner_. The fact that she was, for all intents and purposes, black _herself_, through Peter.

As told in a library book detailing their family genealogy on her father's side, the knowledge that her father was related to an African-American slave named Nathaniel, was the buzz of the family.

Out of curiosity, she had a chance to peruse another book that her father had brought from the library that day, an actual slave narrative penned by Nathaniel himself. Unfortunately, due to either egotism, forgetfulness or just plain, bad writing on the author's part, Meg, like the other family members who read from it, couldn't get anything other than cursory, basic knowledge of the ancestor.

However, what she didn't know was that Peter, in a spectacularly surprising bit of initiative and intellectual curiosity, secretly began to research more into his genealogy and actually found additional information concerning Nate and his life in the Nineteenth Century, which he later regaled to all but Meg, while she was being held captive by burglars who broke into the home one night.

As it stood, the paltry data she got from the library book was insufficient for her needs, but, as she sat up straighter in the couch with renewed sense of confidence in her success, the possibility of finding out more on her own was stoking the fires within her.

If the limitations of the book were any indication, the library was out as far as she was concerned, though Meg decided that she could go back to it, if she had no other recourse. In the meantime, she knew she would have to go to more alternative sources and try her luck there.

"Mom, did Dad take the car?" Meg asked towards the kitchen.

"I think so, Meg."

Meg got up and trotted over to the solitary table that stood near the front door. A quick look over it was rewarded with a pair of car keys that she scooped and pocketed.

"I'm gonna borrow Brian's car for a sec while I look for some research material for my report."

"Okay, Sweetie," Lois called back. "I'll tell Brian when he and Peter come back from the Clam. Hurry back, now."

"Thanks, Mom," Meg said as she went to the door to open it. The voice of the announcer on TV managed to catch her attention for a fleeting moment before she crossed the threshold.

"Next on _Syfy_, Mega-Dino-Shark-Gator. Then it's Mega-Dino-Shark-Gator vs. Hyper-Dragon-Anaconda. After that, it's Shark-Dragon-Hyper-Dino vs. Mega-Anaconda-Gator. That's all coming up tonight-on _Syfy_. Imagine greater!"

"I wish _they_ would," Meg said before closing the door.

Phil Carson, the rumpled, elderly, cigar-scented proprietor of Unique Antiques, lazily propped his pale, wrinkled head on the palm of his open, age-spotted hand, wondering if it was too late to punch his even older uncle in the face for setting him on the path of antique retail so long ago, since he hadn't made a decent sale all afternoon and he was jonesing for his Jack Daniels.

His pink, bleary eyes twitched in the direction of the front door when the little bell signaled its opening. A petite girl in a reddish cap walked almost cautiously inside and peered at the more immediate knick-knacks and gewgaws that hung and sat on shelves in the forward half of the shop.

He straightened himself up and cleared his tobacco-laced throat.

"What can I do for ya?" Phil asked. His eyes stared at her with well-aged cynicism, though he tried to look, for all the world, as though he was glad to see her, and his voice croaked with a world-weariness he couldn't conceal.

"I was wondering if you had any Black Americana?" Meg asked. "Maybe anything from the 1800's?"

Phil's eyes opened a little wider at the request. She seemed a little too young and plain to hold much of an interest in such things. But who was he to judge?

"Well, young lady," he began. "I have a pretty good collection on the premises. So, what are ya after? Slave auction posters? Bill of sales? Maybe ya want some genuine shackles from a real live slave ship?"

Meg suddenly wondered if she was in the right shop, because she suddenly felt dirty.

"Uh, no. Not really. I mean, do you have anything that's more…positive?"

Phil looked at her as though she had asked him if he sold weapons-grade plutonium.

"Hmm. Don't know if I have anything like that, but you could look around, I suppose. People come by and raise all kinds of hell about what I sell here. Not my fault that the less flattering memorabilia sells so well. I just follow the trends."

Meg wandered among the shelves, ignoring the man's defensiveness. Interspersed among the other non-related items were tiny tin Gunthermann wind-up toys depicting black minstrels and others. Wrought-iron fireplace pieces formed into the shapes of black banjo players. Glass collector cases displaying intimidating slave collars with some of its chain still attached.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the collar longer than anything else so far. Appreciation of her Jewish heritage had opened her mind to what it must have been like to live during the Holocaust for a few moments, and the connection between both oppressed peoples was hammered home. It made her stomach twist a little.

"I guess you must get that a lot," she said, trying to be both neighborly, and to dissipate the specter of the past that hung over her.

Phil sat back in his creaking chair behind the counter, deep in thought.

"Yeah, but I don't mind, y'know? It's just stuff that happened to somebody else a long time ago, am I right? I mean, don't get me wrong. The commercial art and media is really hilarious, but I just collect items like this because of their rarity. I mean you just don't come across items that are this well made anymore. Right after the Civil Rights Movement, they stopped making all that kind of stuff, so it's great when you see that it's still being collected by the Aunt Jemima/Gold Dust Twins crowd, because it's pretty hard to come by."

Meg mentally gave the man a sour face. _'I didn't think vampires ran local businesses,'_ she thought. "Wow, that pretty interesting. A World War II train schedule from Auschwitz's pretty hard to come by, too, but it doesn't mean I _want_ one."

She meant to say that under her breath, but her sudden indignation made the sarcasm come out just loud enough for Phil to catch it. Meg waited for the counter-point and it wasn't long in coming.

Phil straightened and puffed up as best as his slightly hunched body could manage. He radiated offense, something Meg would have agreed he did so in abundance.

"What are ya talking about? I'm no racist! I've got all _kinds _of Americana here. Here, take a look at this.

He quickly came around to the front of the counter, leading Meg over to a wooden display table. On it lay a short stack of dusty papers. Their small words were faded with age, however, the letterhead, adorned with an eagle, was still legible due to its size and darkness.

"Genuine U.S. Government documents of land that we gave to the Indians and then reneged on," he proudly offered. "How about this?"

He went to a shelf nearby and took down a small can. When he brought it back, Meg could see that the label showed the unflattering caricature of a Newcomer, with the words, written both in English and Tenctonese, "Uncle Slaggy's Head Shine."

"A can of Newcomer head shine. This stuff's rare. Never been opened, and check this out."

Phil led Meg deeper into his shop until they reached another table that displayed a large leather-bound book. Meg couldn't make out the title of the tome because of the language, but when she saw the stylized eagle and thunderbolt double "S" below it, she understood why she suddenly felt a little numb.

Phil gestured to the cover with big arm movements, as though he were showcasing a new car.

"A book of 100 percent _authentic_ Nazi wanted posters for Allied Jewish-American soldiers. You don't come across this every day," he told her. Then he leaned, to Meg's estimation, way too close, and added as an aside, "But if you ever _do_ come across one of them Auschwitz train schedules, hook me up. I'll make you a good deal."

If Meg thought that the man could creep out Vincent Price _before_ he took her on his macabre little tour of his shop, the tour assuredly confirmed it for her.

"Wow, I guess I got you all wrong, then. Hate's just good business," she concluded sarcastically.

Phil looked like a teacher who had finally gotten through to a stubborn student. "Damn right. Now let's go back up front."

Settling back into his chair, Phil asked, "Okay, now can I help you with anything?"

Meg sighed and decided that despite the ghoul's particular taste, he might just have something to offer.

"Okay. I need some material to do a report on Black History Month. Something I could use for research that's not too pricey."

Phil frowned slightly on the "not too pricey" part. "Well, in that case, you should try the library, kid. I'm not missing my stories so you can make a guilty A in school. I'm here to make some money." He picked up a newspaper he had put down earlier in disgust of another non-sale day, and buried his face in it. Not to read so much as to put an obvious anti-social barrier between Meg and himself.

Meg frowned at _that_. She didn't have much in the way of petty cash and wasn't really in the mood to haggle. "I understand," she conceded. "Well, could you point me to something you have that's really cheap, then?"

"Boy, you really stink at negotiating, kid," Phil sighed in boredom as he put down the newspaper. Then a thought struck him. Actually, more of a _reminder_ struck him. "Well, there's a whole stack of those old local black newspapers from the 1800's."

Meg followed his nod to a stack of cardboard boxes standing in a lonely corner of the store.

"Haven't been able to sell 'em in all this time," he said. "So, I'll tell you what. I'll flip ya for 'em. Heads, they get recycled next week, and tails, you get 'em for free. Deal?"

Meg was caught off-guard by that. The last thing she wanted was to be fobbed off with nothing but old newsprint from when _Andrew Jackson _was in office.

"I guess," she sputtered. "But what can I do-"

"Too late!" he crowed, eager to punish the little snot for daring to set up her soapbox in his shop. He quickly fished in his shirt pocket for a quarter, put it into position on his thumb, and catapulted it high above the two of them.

The two watched it descend, and as he reached out to catch it, Phil missed. The coin bounced off the glass surface of the counter hard, the kinetic energy of its impact causing it to land and spin on its side. It was anyone's guess as to which side it would ultimately rest on.

Despite her reluctance to being the proud owner of ancient birdcage liners, Meg was caught up in the suspense of the coin toss, finding herself wondering if she was going to win, even with such a dubious prize.

The two contestants' attention was ripped from the spinning quarter to the front door, when it suddenly opened on its own accord from a strong breeze outside.

Phil was about to fuss that he should have had that door fixed, when the breeze swept across the countertop, knocking the now wobbling coin over to expose…its _tail_ side.

For a moment or two, neither said anything and just stood where they were, absorbing the fact that the coin toss was over and a winner had been decided by what seemed to be a suspiciously wayward gust of wind.

To an outsider, it would have been a fabulous example of an Aesop's Fable turned inside out. _The Prize No One Wanted To Win. _

Meg started running scenarios in her head on what to do with all of that newspaper, hoping that there was something worth writing about in them.

As for Phil, all he knew was that he _lost_. It didn't matter the contest or the prize, he just knew that this annoying little girl just knocked his happiness level down another microscopic notch.

Phil stared hard at her with a sour, crotchety expression.

"What've you got against recycling, anyway?" he asked her petulantly.

As she lugged the last awkward box of newspaper up the stairs, Meg could appreciate the benefits of a single story home. She also noticed how fast family members could find something else to do, whenever she asked for help in bringing her load to her bedroom.

With a soft grunt of effort, she rested the last box on top of the others that she positioned by her closet doors and marched blankly to her bed to take a breather.

The notion that "one man's trash was another man's treasure" sat prominently in her mind. She hoped that there was truth in that adage. Although it didn't cost her a dime to procure all of this material, it struck her as meaningless to hold on to it if didn't help her in some way.

One thing she didn't want to do was destroy it out of hand, like the shop owner wanted. If worse came to worse, and all she managed to find through its pages were local stories of the day, she figured that the least she could do is maybe give the whole lot to The Rhode Island Black Heritage Society. That _would_ be better.

Pleased by her good judgment, Meg smiled wearily as she crossed her mirror. Apparently, she was so bushed, that it took a few moments for her brain to register a coherent action to the sight her peripheral vision had just caught.

Her reflection looked…odd.

At least _odd_ was the initial description that flashed in her mind at the time. Although she didn't see it completely, Meg noticed that whatever was on the head was neither red nor her toque, the shape was unfamiliar and looked to be a faded shade of green.

The hair looked to be a shock of black curls that flowed out from under the green covering on the head, and, just as surprising, Meg thought that the reflection was…_darker_? Was she too close to the mirror? A shadow, perhaps? Maybe, but it was the middle of the afternoon and her bedroom was flooded with natural light coming from both of its windows.

Automatically, Meg stepped back to look at herself full on in the mirror, a little frightened by what she saw, but resolved to see the truth.

Her own image stared nervously back at her. She took a breath and closed her eyes both in gratitude and embarrassment. Too much stress over this report, obviously.

"I must be tired," Meg self-diagnosed as she went over to her dresser and turned on her radio. Then she finished her trek to the bed and flopped relievedly on it.

Meg squirmed into a better position to relax when the radio stopped playing.

With an exasperated growl, she got out of bed with the kind of tired, annoyed body English that would have made a grizzly bear proud.

She held the radio by its side and flicked its power switch, but it was still silent. She gave the back of the device a cursory check for frayed wiring, but nothing was physically amiss. Satisfied in her confirmation of the condition of the radio, and nothing else, Meg slumped back on her bed in frustration.

She sat in the disconcerting silence of the room. _'Well, I'm already in bed,'_ she thought. _'I was going to take a cat-nap, anyway.'_

Settling into a prone position, Meg stretched and was about to relax into eventual R.E.M. sleep, when the bedroom door opened and Lois stepped into the threshold.

"Meg, Sweetie?" Lois said to her resting daughter.

"Yeah?"

"I just came up to tell you that power's out all over the neighborhood. It might take a while until we get it back."

Meg gave a sigh to that. "Good thing it's still daytime, then."

"Yeah. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know," Lois said.

"Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome, Sweetie."

Upon her mother's departure, Meg absently wondered how did they suffer a blackout in the middle of the day.

Peter Griffin stood by the front of the smoking family station wagon that sat in the middle of the street, several blocks from where he lived, oblivious to the inconvenient destruction he wrought just moments before.

An observer would have noticed that the car had been given a new feature that didn't exactly look factory-standard.

Extending from the rear of the roof was a crudely attached metal boom, hooked at one end and laced with cables that ran down its length into a kit-bashed terminal, which was, itself, crudely plugged into the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.

A torn section of high-tension power line trailed from the hooked end of the boom and ran to one end of the street. Sputtering and flashing dangerously close to where Peter stood, was the other end of the power line, still being fed electricity and still connected to its jury-rigged place, far lower on the telephone pole than it should have been.

How Peter had managed to find the time and dubious expertise to run a line from one side of the street to the other in a perilous reenactment to a key scene from _Back To The Future_ was a mystery for the ages.

In any event, he now stood outside the car while his dog, Brian, did his level best to hide his large muzzled face from the incriminating looks and uproar his friend's asinine decision would soon reap.

Peter looked thoughtfully resolute into the horizon, the leading man in the movie in his mind, and said, to no one in particular, "Today, sadly, the miracle of time travel has eluded mankind."

He then turned to where Brian sat and said to him, "Brian, you push and I'll steer."

Peter, still in his belief that he was close to something akin to a scientific breakthrough, then began running nonsensical equations in his already nonsensical mind on his way to the driver's side of the car.

Unfortunately, he was also blissfully unaware that his foot was about to come down on the end of the still live wire…

Meg just shrugged it off as one of those unexplainable things that just happened, when _another_ seemingly unexplainable thing happened.

From the side of the room where her closet was, the top cardboard box had fallen with a _thump_, on its side, its contents of neatly folded, age-discolored copies of _The Quahog Key, _Quahog's first black newspaper, spilling across the floor.

Meg jumped and got up off the bed with a start. What was going on here?

She walked slowly towards the pile and looked over at the other boxes that supported the one that fell. There was no damage to them. No dents or deformations that would cause the lower boxes to sag and not hold up the uppermost one. No physical reason she could see for the top box to fall.

She kneeled to the folded papers to put them back into their container, pondering if maybe there was a mouse in her room, or worse, that caused the spill.

Then she noticed that one of the newspapers, probably the first in that pile, had slid away from the others upon impact and sat off to the side, its pages opened.

After setting the box upright, Meg reached over to grab the stray and fold it closed again, when she noticed something in its sepia interior.

A dark photograph sat in the upper left corner of a page, beside a title written in a large ornate Victorian font, _"My Quahog Days."_

Meg thought nothing of it for the first few seconds of seeing the photo, but when she slowed down in her need to clean up long enough to really get a good look at the face in the picture, she was, in a word, thunderstruck.

The face was her own. Or rather, it was her impossible dark mirrored reflection upon startling recollection. Frozen, Meg just stared and studied the woman's features. Although the authoress was black, she could have easily had been her double.

Here, this young woman, who looked to be about Meg's age, more or less, wore a different outfit then what she thought she saw in the mirror, a stately blouse of the era. Though the image was faded, the look of contentment was clearly evident in her doppelganger's smile.

Scanning down the page, Meg saw that other writers didn't break up the entire page into separate articles. Whoever she was, this page's entirety was devoted to her words alone.

Sitting in a more comfortable position, Meg picked up the paper to see more clearly the words that appeared under the grainy photograph.

"Article by May Griffin," she read to herself.

_May _Griffin? It sounded like she said her own name, but that very fact hit her like a rabbit punch. The similarityof _appearance_ and _name_. Of_ everything…_

Meg was stunned at the impossibility of it. At the sheer _improbability_ of it. "She's a _Griffin_!" she squeaked. "Oh, my God! Could she be related to _me_? This is…_so_ _cool_!"

She stood up and ran back to her bed, newspaper in hand, eager to find out more about this lost gem of the family that she just discovered.

As she settled in to read every word and absorb every passage of this precious, precious link to her past, the anxiety of doing the report fled from her like fog before the sun. She was going to enjoy this.

Her heart hammered with every question she wished she could ask her, well, great-great-great grand…_aunt_? Meg couldn't fathom what May's genealogical status was, and couldn't care less. How was school like for her? Did she have trouble getting boys to like her? What were her dreams? What was her family like?

Some questions were easier to answer than others, like did she ever try to fit in with the popular crowd? Meg could see that not being popular because she might have appeared plain to others would seem rather petty when held up to the stark fact that May wouldn't have been considered popular _at all_,purely because she was black.

No matter what humiliating experiences Meg might have went through in herlife, no one ever considered _lynching_ her simply because she was a Plain Jane.

But such questions would hopefully be answered in the fullness of time with the reading of May's unearthed missive.

And so Meg relaxed, valiantly tried to suppressed all expectations, and read…


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter_ One-_

_The funny thing about faith is that it makes you do the outwardly foolhardy, no matter how foolish you might have felt at the time. For example, Old Man Ragg didn't want to give my story a chance, as usual, but his _workers' _moods were certainly brightened by it. They say they hadn't gotten a good, hard laugh in a long time…_

A small, blue blur flew from the doorway of the stately brick office building in Downtown Quahog, and crashed with a clumsy tumble into the dusty street outside, startling nearby pedestrians and a passing draft horse.

As the well-healed citizens and that particular beast of burden resumed their respective journeys, the settling dust finally revealed the petite figure of a black teenaged girl, who stood up, straightened her wayward spectacles, and beat the loose soil from her otherwise clean, simple, baby-blue dress.

"Thanks, fellas," May Griffin said sarcastically, as she finished dusting herself off. "I was having so much fun in there, I forgot where the door was."

The door in question, a bright white, doubled affair, led through the façade of the Ragg Publishing Company, which proudly bore its sign above said doors, alongside its corporate motto, "Print Is Power." Few people would know how stringently the owner of the company took those words to heart, one Phineas Q. Ragg, Esq.

Phineas, an elderly white man, so pale that his liver spots could be seen from a distance, tottered out into the afternoon sunlight, and fought his palsy shake just long enough to toss an ink-stained, dog eared, roughly written manuscript feebly at her feet.

Arriving on either side to protect him, were his men, The Bookers, known throughout every smoky saloon and pool hall in Quahog as The Bookends.

Bart and Brent Booker, two huge, enormously strong identical twins, were bruisers who worked for Ragg as bodyguards and personal muscle. They dressed in identically tailored bowler hats and white suits that heroically tried to contain their girth, and were haphazardly adorned with black letters of various typefaces and fonts, an eccentric, personal touch that Ragg had given them.

"Your arse must have amnesia, girl," Phineas Ragg's English voice squawked at her. "Every time I kick it, it slips your mind. Bring that pile of trash near my printing presses again, and my boys and I'll take you down to the storage cellar and find out what kind of ink comes out of you!"

Perplexed, May didn't have much time to ponder the strangeness of that rather odd racial comment before Ragg's protectors, and her _ejectors,_ said _their_ peace.

Brent stood tall, using his imposing height to direct his voice out into the street at her.

"Yeah!" he quipped. "We'll turn ya into a _final edition_!"

Brother Bart, however, decided to follow the chain of command. He hunched over to his employer, which almost looked like a crouch, due to Ragg's physical frailty and tiny size, and asked, "You want we should…_stop her circulation_?"

May calmly wondered if the puns would have been as bad as the bum's rush she suffered.

Ragg rose a quivering, yet placating hand at the two of them. "No need, my fine fellows. I think she gets…the _premise_. Bookends, let's go."

May tightened her head wrap more securely as she felt the throb in her backside where one of The Bookends kicked her, and favored Mr. Ragg a condescending smile that the old man's failing eyesight might have misread as sincerity.

"May the good Lord keep you, Mr. Ragg," she said to him, then added under her breath, "Keep you in the deepest bowels of-"

"Hi, May!"

She cringed as she was interrupted by the sound of a taunting voice approaching, and a small crowd gathering behind her, as the target of her venom toddled back into his building with his goons.

May glanced around to see who might have been behind her, but she knew she shouldn't have bothered. From the errant, sycophantic giggles, and the light scent of French perfume that her father had bought her, she already knew who had arrived to bedevil her.

Standing before her entourage like a princess to her retinue, Cassandra D'amico basked in the glow of the awkward scene May was in the center of.

The only child of Italian immigrants who made their fortune opening a textile plant in town, it was Cassandra's raison d'etre to represent the future of American elitism by announcing to all and sundry that the new, beautiful people, like her, were in charge, or soon to be, due to good looks, good breeding, good money, and bad attitude.

So it stood to reason that the poor, the unpopular, the unwashed immigrants and people like May were all fair game to her and her personal game of social one-upmanship.

"Well, well, well," Cassandra greeted with sly insincerity on her part. "Setting the world on fire with that book of yours? Through torturing your fellow classmates in that warehouse you call a school with another chapter? You couldn't write a decent dime novel if it sold for five cents."

"It's not a warehouse, okay, Cassy? It's just segregated," May fired back, already tired of the near-weekly badgering.

Cassandra's face suddenly grew dark as she puffed up in indignation at what she deemed May's undeserved familiarity.

"Don't call me _Cassy_! You're not _good_ enough to call me that!" she spat at her. She then calmed down, for the sake of her comrades, so as not to look overly ruffled over someone who, in her opinion, should be carrying her books.

Glancing over to her girlfriends, who flanked her like cliquish remoras, she said, "Have you girls ever been to her school? It's so black, they might as well call it night school."

"I want to tell you," May said, when the laughter died a little. "In case you haven't been told this in a while, to go fuck yourself."

One in Cassandra's group failed to stifle a guffaw, to May's satisfaction, and Cassandra found herself on a rare defensive. She stepped up closer to May, in the hopes of intimidating her, but May, to her credit, stood resolute, almost eager for an exchange.

"That's funny, May," D'amico conceded with her customary smirk. "But I can think of a much better way to blow off steam. Seeing you all chained up on my cellar wall, with me holding the key."

"What is with these people and cellars?" May asked herself.

With her gang cheering her on, Cassandra became more confident and decided to press her attack.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" she said tauntingly, as visions of May chained and bowed before her, swam in her mind. Even though she usually had the upper hand socially, it was still a constant irritation seeing May dust herself off and sometimes display that spunky gumption of hers in the face of it.

But that would be all over when May was set up like a living tribute to Cassandra's supposed greatness.

"All bound and _helpless_…"

The dark deliciousness of it all, the sensual taste of dominating her at last. The metallic song of chain on masonry. _Their song. _The glow of her bronze skin as she perspired from her futile exertions to escape.

"And _me_ there...just…_watching_ you and…"

That intoxicating knowledge that her young life…and her _body_…was in her hands.

"…Feathers…"

One of Cassandra's friends, clearly worried for her, called out to the near-daydreaming queen bee, "Cassy? _Cassy!_"

Cassandra was jerked out of her fantasies to see May slowly shake her head in pity. That stiffened D'amico inside and she resumed her attack, hoping that her friends hadn't noticed her strange lapse.

"You know what it _really _is?" she asked rhetorically. "You people are always trying to skate uphill with all this uppitiness. All the kids in my school know their place around _me_. Why don't you?"

She decided to step even closer to May's face as a challenge, her smirk growing wider in anticipation of a verbal coup de grace. "You think your life's on such steady ground, but you know what, it's not. It's just a _bottomless hole_."

May, to her credit, looked unflappable as she gave Cassandra an innocent look, and said smoothly, "Wow, so _that's_ what your dad calls you."

Among the scandalized gasps that her friends supplied, Cassandra was a statue of silent apoplexy, allowing May to bask in the glow of the awkward scene that _Cassandra _was now in the center of.

Cassandra curled her fingers into claws. Hidden lesbian crush be _damned_.

"Why, you-" she screeched as she tackled May to the ground.

Although Cassandra was taller, May managed to grab a fistful of hair and wrap her legs around Cassandra's waist as she shifted herself out from under her opponent, causing them to roll around violently.

May's free hand was busy keeping D'amico's other free hand from punching her in the face. D'amico's occupied hand, in turn, was clutching May's own hair and head scarf, trying to lift her head so she could drive it continuously into the ground.

Cassandra's friends were so caught up in their cheering and whooping at the combatants and the excitement of being in the middle of such a scandalous scene, that they didn't see the patrolling constable that was attracted to the noise until it was too late.

The girls backed off a respectful distance and let the policeman reach down into the dust cloud of scratching fingers and kicking feet, as though he were fishing with his bare hands, and plucked the two fighters mightily from the ground.

With a firm shake, he snapped them temporarily, out of their bloodlust, and deposited them on their feet, arm lengths away from each other.

Both girls were breathing hard, battle-scarred and eager to resume hostilities, but the constable's solid body and authoritarian scowl finally brought them both to heel.

He turned to May, adding a wagging, accusatory finger to the scowl he flashed at her. "Alright, you. I want you to go home, and think long and hard about not being a bully."

May looked at the cop with shock and suddenly wanted to claw his beady eyes free from his skull, a good way, she knew, to spend some quality time in a jailhouse. With a sigh of supreme control, she stood down.

While she choose to look for her manuscript in the dusty street, May could hear the constable regard Cassandra next.

"And you," the policeman began, with May turning to see Cassandra receive her tongue-lashing next.

The constable's expression softened to that of a doting father. "You have a nice day, alright?"

In disgust, May found and picked up her dingy book, deciding that a tactical retreat was more prudent under the circumstances, but not without a parting shot of defiance.

She turned her head to regard her foe as she marched away from the area.

"We'll see you on the road, scag!" she yelled in angry parting. "We'll see you on the road like we saw The Night Rider!"

Not to be outdone by a mere freewoman, disheveled Cassandra D'amico yelled back, "We remember The Night Rider, and we know who you are!"

The Concord stagecoach with the brown and black body panels that creaked quietly up the road from the train station, was built, like so many others, from the main factory in its namesake of Concord, New Hampshire about nine years ago.

Sturdy, solid and capable, it served mail carriers, government couriers, and even smugglers. Now it carried the figure that drove it with calm purpose towards the city limits of Quahog.

In all of the previous townships and metropolises the driver rode through, to any people who caught sight of the figure, he was simply known only as The Hooded Coachman, a sorrowful, silent jehu.

Clad in a black, weatherworn box coat, its threadbare shoulder capes billowing in the sea tinged breeze, and adorned with a crudely sewn hood in the collar to keep out the elements and hide his inscrutable face, he was the lonely, implacable image of Death itself.

Although the sole passenger who rode within the coach, a huntsman, was the vehicle's true master, the dark coachman hung his head low in the bright sun to conceal his visage, even now. He knew only shame and the hollow inescapability of his service to The Hunter.

Truly, even the coach itself was not allowed to retain its original beauty or the tasks for which it was built, in _its_ service to The Hunter. Over the years, it was stripped down, overhauled, and heavily modified. From the front boot, to its rear, from the luggage rack on its roof, to the wheels themselves and all space in between. Even its name was a psychological tool of The Hunter's. _The Hessian._

Laden with hidden equipment and presently dormant weapons, the stagecoach's innocuous appearance made The Hunter within, a solitary and premier predator of men, driven by money and satisfied only with the challenge of pursuit.

As far as The Coachman was concerned, he was just another accoutrement of the coach, a shadowy component of The Hunter's arsenal.

A double strike from inside the coach was his master's missive, a questioning thump that the driver was long accustomed to.

"We're almost there," came The Coachman's answer, doleful, soft, and rarely heard by any other living soul.

The silence that followed meant that The Hunter was satisfied, and The Coachman hunched a little lower in his box seat. At the very least, the prey would enjoy the few hours remaining.

He didn't increase the speed of the two-horse team that pulled this disguised wagon of war. There was no need. The capture would happen, as it always did, in its appointed time. There was no rush.

The length and breadth of the New England beauty of Quahog, Rhode Island was on serene display in the light of the late afternoon sun.

It was reflected on the clean windows of whitewashed homes and places, like the dignified First Baptist Church in America, the green lawns, the varied and elaborate carriages that cruised by orderly shops, and mostly in its contented citizens.

Technology had also made its presence known in the town, as well, in the form of a small fleet of steam-powered omnibuses that chugged sedately along their given routes, ferrying top-hat wearing businessmen, adventurous ladies, common folk, and, on one steam bus, puffing towards the periphery of the town's black neighborhoods to the east, a hidden passenger.

Almost immediately after she and her family settled into Quahog from their exodus of Lynchtree, Virginia and the Pewterschmidt Plantation two years ago, May had to learn how to get around this noisy, active, energetic, new town, and this marvelous conveyance made it all possible.

And as she had no desire to feel so many of the white passengers' unwelcome and disapproving eyes casting their gaze upon her, it became a fairly common sight for pedestrians to see May secretly hitching bus rides from the farther reaches of the city to home.

In any event, no one seemed to care that she did this, though May did suspect that this was probably because anyone who was watching her was hoping that she'd fall while the bus was in motion, and eat street.

Sitting on an ornamental, protective skirt that extended from the rear of the bus's chassis that was designed to shield rear passengers from dust and road debris kicked up from the rear tires, May took her ease and reflected on the day.

Her after-school plan was a bust, obviously, with regards to her getting her book published. And ever since she first read a passage of her book to her fellow classmates, every time she attempted to regale them with a new chapter, shoes would be hurled in her direction and windows would be in danger of being opened for suicide attempts.

The teachers, however, appreciated her recitations on those days when the class acted unruly and a suitable non-corporal punishment was needed.

May chalked it all up to petty jealousy on their part. Even when professional and far more learned people than her rejected it, she would harden inside and tell herself that she was just too…what was that word her mother showed her a few months ago? _Innovative_? Yes, innovative. Literarily ahead of her time.

Relaxing to the rhythm of the tires trundling softly over the street, she thought back to when she made the momentous decision to write a book.

The miracle of understanding the magical marks that the whites scribed on paper was unlocked very early in her life when her mother, Lois, the daughter of wealthy Silas Pewterschmidt, secretly home-taught her, as well as the rest of the family, over time.

However, since their perilous journey north, she had heard talk of other slaves who not only knew how to read and write, but had also bucked tyrannical tradition by writing complete books themselves.

Slave narratives were known to be popular, but she wondered sometimes why this was so, if white readers, obviously the larger audience, didn't all learn from them, or weren't moved into complete abolition of, at the very least, the American slave trade. Some days, she would stir herself into a hopeful abandon, wondering if such a miracle would ever happen in her lifetime.

In any event, May made the choice not to follow the herd, and in the months following her family's settling into town, and her younger brother and she being accepted into the only segregated school in the city, May began scribing her tome.

With a limited, yet expanding vocabulary, it was painstaking, but by the time she was done, confidence was high, and upon friends and strangers alike reading it, reaction was immediate.

Wholly universal dislike.

At first, May figured it needed to be rewritten or maybe changed in a few parts, but that the grand whole of the plot was still good enough on its to merits to survive such a desperate editing.

Revision after revision was done and submitted for people's approval, and it wasn't long before people's reactions to the story became…mixed.

Some wanted to end their lives in the most expedient manner possible upon reading a few paragraphs.

Others felt that killing the _authoress_ would, quite literally, save the nation from the fatal genesis of a plague of bad literature.

And still others, particularly those of a more martial disposition, strangely enough, applauded May's book as possibly the single most effective defense against future attacks from a foreign power.

Clearly, May was not pleased, and it wasn't long before she simply refused to accede to any more changes. In her ego-stroked mind, the book was good all by its lonesome, even if the common, clueless rabble failed to see it. Love her, love the book, indeed.

In response to her frustration, May unconsciously held her manuscript closer to her. She would never openly admit it, but the constant rewrites and accompanying reviews in the negative, created the bothersome fear and paralyzing doubt that she could never write any better than she did. Every time she looked at the book in her hand, or thought about it, even marginally, it only served to remind her of that insecurity, that sliced deeply, yet unobtrusively into her self-esteem, like a well-whetted carving knife.

Yet, the book had also become her security blanket. It was something that she alone, created proudly, from her own free will, untroubled mind, and unshackled hand. It gave her a deep sense of well-being and accomplishment, never judging, never fickle, and already she was thinking about putting it under her pillow when he went to sleep again tonight. It put her mind at ease like few things did.

When she felt the bus's deceleration, May took a look at the surrounding storefronts and landmarks, checking to see how much farther she needed to ride.

Peering around to look up ahead, she could see that the bus had stopped to allow a slow procession of draft horse-teamed wagons carrying barrels of beer from the local brewery of a man who hailed from neighboring Pawtucket, to pass.

When she turned back, May could see a small crowd standing on a nearby street corner.

The crowd, a small knot of four white male teens, had come from a corner store, circling and blocking the one target who had passed it a moment before, a comely, redheaded girl, who to May, looked so freckled that she might have been sired by a strawberry.

May had seen her share of accosting, and even been the victim of it once or twice, so she knew what to expect. Her suspicions were soon confirmed by the petty rhetoric one of the boys yelled towards the girl.

"You're pretty brassy taking a walk up here," he said. "You Irish sure aren't smart. What are you? A _Clancy? _An _O'Shaunessy_, or what?"

The teenaged girl, terrified of the coming beating and the disheartening knowledge that most of the people walking the street would turn a blind eye, barely managed to squeak, "Mc-" before another boy chimed in with dark vindication.

"See? I knew she was a _McSomething-or-other. _All you foreigners come here to our country and make yourselves at home, and we didn't _ask_ you to. America's for the _Americans_," he crowed.

He then glanced over at his compatriots, who made sure they blocked her way thoroughly, with a mean, lascivious eye. A look the stricken girl caught very easily.

"Rotten Nativists," May grumbled to herself as she worked on keeping her attention focused on both the commotion on the corner and the progress of the traffic ahead. It wouldn't be long before the bus started up again. She wondered if she could really pull it off.

"What say we show our Irish lass here some good ol' _American_ hospitality," the boy said, as the gang closed the circle even tighter, darkening the space the girl was now getting squeezed into. "What say you, boys?"

It was getting harder for the girl to breath, and she wondered in a panic if it was from the lack of air in this criminal huddle, or because of the fear that was making her hyperventilate. A fear that ramped up sharply when she felt an errant hand stroke her arm.

Then a shout rang out from one end of the street to the other.

"_Hey, assholes!_"

As one, the boys backed off the girl a little and turned towards the middle of the street, curious as to who would be so bold, or so crazy, as to curse in mixed company in broad daylight like that.

When they, and a few other offended pedestrians, all focused their attention on the black girl with the tattered manuscript, standing defiantly a few feet away from the rear of an idling steam bus, the mob mentally switched targets for just the right moment.

"Run!" May yelled to the girl while gesturing quickly to where she was. She was taking a big gamble when she saw the convoy of horses beginning to end up the street. She had to get her out of there right when the bus took off again. If it wasn't timed just right, _both_ girls would be set upon instead.

The girl's action was lucid and immediate. Seeing the closest, widest gap formed from the distraction, she took off, making sure to tread heavily on one of the boys' feet, so he would painfully open the gap even more so.

The girl flew into the street and her hand was grabbed roughly by May, as she pulled her back towards the bus, which was finally starting to pull away.

May and the girl ran in a panic, gradually closing the distance to the bus's wide, rear panel, and all the while not daring to look back at the dangerous band of ne'er do wells yelling hot words and throwing vegetables and small stones at the two of them while giving chase.

Finally both girls caught up with the bus's rear skirt and clambered on as fast they could without sliding off. It wasn't a moment too soon. The bus's steam engine had just kicked up enough pressure to accelerate the vehicle just out of range of the now tiring hoodlums.

May tried to calm her breathing to a steadier pace, but the close call was making that difficult.

"Boy, I never been so happy to be on the back of the bus," she gasped happily. She then glanced over to the Irish girl. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." the girl said, trying to steady her thumping heartbeat. "Thank ye. Thank ye kindly."

"Hey, no problem. I hate bullies, myself. Besides, I know how the Irish get treated around here," May said with a weary smile, leaning back against the bus to rest. "So, to me, you're just my sister from another mister, y'know? We gotta stick together."

The girl regarded May for a moment as she thought about that comment. She hadn't been in Quahog that long, but she knew from her friends and family the attitude the country's white ruling class and even the not-so ruling class had concerning both the Irish and the blacks.

Already a disquieting state of affairs, it got decidedly worse when she finally got a local taste of the hate just now. As terrifying as that episode was, she knew that she and her people were relatively spared when it came to the American brand of terror.

'_I wonder how this girl and her people coped,' _the girl thought glumly.

"It's not easy," May told her.

The girl gasped with a start. Could they read minds?

"What?"

"It's not easy," May amended. "Living here in America. It's not easy for you, is it?"

"Oh…no," the girl solemnly agreed. Then a question blurted from her that made her frustration more than evident, even though her modesty regretted the loss in self-control to a relative stranger.

"I can't understand it. Why would whites be after us? Aren't _we_ white?"

"Nope," May answered with an understanding smile. "Not to them. You're _Irish_, but that's okay. Some folks just can't handle that." A blush of pride crept into the girl's face in response.

"So, what were you doing in the _nice_ part of town?" May asked to break the ice.

"Oh, uh, I was looking for work in town," the Irish girl said demurely. "Anything they had. I wasn't picky."

"Let me guess," May said. "_'Irish need not apply'_, everywhere you went."

"Yur right. Do ye work?"

"Not right now. I'm going to school first."

The girl looked surprised at that. "Ye go to school? I thought ye weren't allowed."

May smiled tiredly. "Like I said, it's not easy. My name is May. What's yours?"

Finally learning her benefactor's name put the girl at ease as she reached out and shook May's hand. "My name is Heather. My family arrived here two weeks ago. We're staying at a relative's place while we get settled. It's in a part of town near the river called Hayes Hollow."

May perked up in recognition of the name. "Hayes Hollow? That's Rough-and-Tumble. That's where _I_ live! Tell you what; I'll walk you home. That way I know you'll be alright, and I can show you around, since we're practically neighbors."

"Alright then."

Looking past Heather's shoulder, May saw a familiar storefront, Fanny's Book Shop, signaling that their stop was almost reached.

"Okay. We're almost there," May informed her. She then carefully stood up, and, while balancing on her side of the rear skirt, reached into the rear of the bus's interior through one of the glassless back windows, past the unknowing passengers sitting there, and pulled the signal cord.

At the sound of the bell in the driver's section, the bus slowed to a stop, but the driver looked puzzled when he saw no one exit from the vehicle's main or side passageway.

May and Heather snuck away from the bus as the conveyance started up again and lightly sprayed the two with a light shower of dust and pebbles in its wake.

A plaque was posted on the corner of the street that led into the broad, labyrinthine neighborhood beyond. On its face was printed _Welcome To Hayes Hollow_, but someone of dubious humor and a paintbrush, had long ago written over the words _Hayes Hollow_, and wrote instead, _Rough-and-Tumble_.

Even without looking at the sign, the two girls could hear the hubbub of people in the streets, and smell the faint scent of the city's crucial, hard-working river off in the distance. They were home.

"I haven't had much time to acquaint myself to the place," Heather admitted.

"Well, then, let me give you the five cent tour!" May offered.

The quarter was in stark contrast to the brighter, more open neighborhoods that showcased Quahog's gentry. It was architecturally older, its streets were more heavily tracked and rough-hewn and, though some would say it was a trick of the eye, it was visually dimmer than the sky should have naturally permitted.

May gestured to the immensity of the block with wide arms and a dubious grin of civic pride.

The Rough-and-Tumble Anthem

(Original Song)

(May)

_Say hello to Rough-and-Tumble,_

_A unique, unfettered place, _

_You'll find nowhere half a humble,_

_Here in these United States_

'_Cept the reason why you're living _here_,_

_Is mainly 'cause of race, _

_Can't complain, 'cause it's okay,_

_Enjoy your stay!_

Lining both ends of the avenue that was the main artery into the quarter, were those businesses successful enough, to service the citizenry here.

Still, from the windows of the few tobacco, clothing and naval supply shops, and the arcades and promenades that displayed the vibrant, river-caught seafood, bread and vegetable markets, May and Heather could see patrons and proprietors getting along in the business of commerce, as they strolled by…

As the girls headed further into the quarter, the general places of business became fewer and other buildings, dedicated to more specific clienteles, emerged.

Smoky pool halls and ale-soaked taverns, dingy homes-turned-flop houses that served the visiting sailors in town, barely solvent inns, and shady pawn shops that would happily fence any ill-gotten gain one acquired, formed the heart of the quarter.

One tavern, in particular, caught Heather's attention. One with a weathered sign of a drunken, stylized clam.

"What's that?" she asked.

(May)

_Here's The Tipsy Clam Saloon,_

_A place of excellent repute,_

_Where the liquor's not too watered,_

_And the songbird here is cute,_

_But the barman's _wife's_ the singer,_

_So he might give you the boot,_

_What the hoot! A small dispute's,_

_A drink away!_

As they continued along, watching the contented citizens in the streets, May remarked on them with pedantic fanfare.

"Here is the living blood of the neighborhood. Black people and poor white immigrants, sprinkled here and there with a smattering of slumming bluebloods. A curiously satisfying melting pot of cultures, held together by the commonality of civic oppression and mutual need. Uh, oh."

"What's wrong?" Heather asked May.

May just pointed in a direction up ahead and said, "Her."

A gaily lamp-lit and gaudily painted façade, that looked like it once was part of an equally gaudy steamship, faced out from a large building nearby, like a giant Mardi Gras mask. Above it was an equally gaudy sign that boldly read, "The Pleasure Palace."

A former warehouse, it was renovated long ago and sat on one side of the block, overlooking and giving commanding views of the river. Using its prime location in Rough-and-Tumble to attract a host of worldly clients from all walks of life, it was the flashy jewel of the quarter. To Heather, this was an eye-opener. She had never seen a house of ill-repute before.

Yet, it wasn't the building that drew forth the groan that had Heather curious. It was the appearance on the front steps, of a large-chinned, brunette woman dressed in fashion that, however fine, was tastelessly layered. This peacock of a woman had seen May and waved brightly at the two of them.

"Hello, May!" the woman called out from the top of the landing.

With extreme reluctance, May led Heather to the Palace, stopping at the foot of the marble stairs.

(May)

_This is Madame Glenda Quagmire,_

_And her stock and trade's erotic,_

_But the fact that she wants _mom and me_,_

_To work here's idiotic_

(Glenda)

_But the boys here have a taste,_

_For the mature and the exotic!_

(May)

_Sad to say, it's not your day._

_We must away!_

(Come on!)

Following the scent of the river in the distance, the two girls headed toward the solitary wood and iron bridge that spanned the cold, vast river. Freighters, sailboats and steam pickets cruised slowly in and out of the ancient, industrious landing that connected Rough-and-Tumble's warehouse district and the cheap flats along its periphery.

Stopping at the very center of the span, May and Heather looked out over the waters. The soft sound of a distant church bell rang in harmony with the bells of the buoys far below.

(May)

_Here is the bridge,_

_That we come to,_

_We can look at the ships,_

_That put to sea  
><em>

_Check out the,_

_Cut-rate apartments,_

_The warehouses, and church,_

_That baptized me!_

Walking back, they stopped at a hill overlooking the riverfront's landing. A fountain with a wide stone base and ornamentation dominated in the center of it.

May sat on the edge of the basin, lauding the old fixture and its place. Heather had to grin at the spectacle, and, she had to admit, she was beginning to feel a bit at home. It didn't seem to be that bad, in retrospect.

(May)

_Here's a stone and copper font,_

_I come to write here every time,_

_And it overlooks the river,_

_It's a favorite haunt of mine,_

_And I tell you, girl,_

_The sailors here are lookin' mighty fine!_

_Lend you my spyglass,_

_When we're over here next tiiime!  
><em>

_By The Powers That Would Be,_

_You have been handed your decree  
><em>

(Heather)

_That they want me to feel guilty,_

_Of the status of my building?  
><em>

(Both)

_There, on paper, it's to shake us,_

_But it really doesn't faze us,_

'_Cause we're stronger than they make us,_

_Out to be...  
><em>

(Heather)

_It's not really such a hellhole!  
><em>

(May)

_That's the motto of this ghetto!_

_So I want you,_

_To say "Hello",_

_To the_

_Rough-and-Tumble,_

_Family!  
><em>

With a flourish that would have made a Vaudevillian proud, May finished her lively tour.

"Now that you know where you live," she said. "Any questions?"

"Just one," asked Heather innocently. "Who do I have to blow to move out?"

The sunset cast a subtle fire across the residential areas that May, with stooped shoulders, walked through, weighed down by weariness and nagging, little stabs of self-doubt.

Her mood perked up some upon seeing her modestly appointed Cape Cod home on the block. One of _many_ modestly appointed Cape Cod homes on the block. Though they appeared drab in their muted paints and weather-beaten exteriors, to May, they were opulent in beauty and palatial in comfort compared to the ramshackle slave quarters she was born and grew up in.

Finally, May reached the front step of her house, calling out, "I'm home," while stepping into the vestibule.

To the left of her was a closed door that led into the parlor, where the best of the house's furniture was displayed and was the location of her parents' bedroom and her youngest brother's crib.

Up ahead was the staircase that led to the loft space above where her younger brother Curtis and she had bedrooms, and to the right, she saw light coming from the opened door leading into the all-purpose hall, a large room that took up the entire length of that side of the house and served as the center of activity for the family.

She entered the room as her family was taking their ease in the forward center of the hall. Her black father, Nathaniel, sat deep in his rocker in the corner, contently listening to his white wife of seventeen years, Lois, playing with delicate speed on her harpsichord by the window.

Her obese, younger brother Curtis sat on a large settee by the wall that ran along the same side as the hall's fireplace further back. Knife in chubby hand and shoes buried in shavings, he was carving an intricate figurine that belied his pudgy fingers' dexterity. On the center of the wide, colorful, Quaker-made rug, her youngest brother, the baby, Huey Griffin, was prone, drawing crude pictures of plants on a piece of paper.

For the family's humble budget, the chamber was pleasing and was given character by those little touches that only a woman could bless a house with to turn into a home.

The rich smell of something in the back of the hall, slow-cooking by the fireplace, completed the picture of hearth and home to her. Depression could always be tackled with a full stomach.

Upon noticing May's arrival, Lois switched songs and played up the introduction to The Addams Family Theme Song, her favorite piece of music. May, as well as the rest of the family, followed along and snapped fingers at the proper time.

Although this would have normally elicited good feelings from all involved, Lois, instead, took the opportunity after the musical interlude, to point a disapproving finger at her daughter.

"Where have you been, young lady?" she scolded. "It's getting dark out there."

"It's getting dark in here, too," Nate joked from his chair.

Normally, such a joke would have tickled her, but worry had colored her mood this time. "Nathaniel Griffin, stop that, that's not funny," she reprimanded her husband before turned her attention back to May. "Well, young lady, let's have it."

"I'm sorry, Mom," May said. "I just went over to Ragg's again today. Hoped he'd change his mind, that's all." She tactically decided not to tell her about saving Heather that afternoon. The last thing she wanted was a fretful mother really clamping down on her outdoor activities.

"And _did _he?" Lois asked.

"No," May sulked before she jumped into a defensive rant. "But that's only because Ragg's old and doesn't know what he's talking about. He said that my story was horrible, as usual, and that the chapters were too long. But I love long chapters, Mom. Nice, _big_, long chapters. Big, _thick_, long chapters. Let's face it, Mom! I'm a size queen!"

"Well, you _did_ get that from me," her mother admitted with a sly chuckle. "Alright. You better go and wash up. It's almost supper time."

"Yes, ma'am," May said relievedly. She then turned and went towards the rear door at the end of the hall that led to the water pump out in the backyard.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter _Two_-

"Supper time," Lois called out by the large, iron cooking pot that hung in the hearth.

The fireplace that served the rear of the hall, which itself, functioned as a kitchen/dining room area, was decorated with cut lengths of herbs and other aromatics, tied in bunches along the span of ribbons that were then festooned across and draped around the flue.

The family gathered around a fair-sized dining room table of humble design that sat in a corner between the counter and the cabinetry that served the kitchen space, and a polished brass spittoon that held flowers leading back out in the hall.

"So," May asked her father, after grace was said and she gulped a full forkful of hot food from her plate. "How was work today?"

Nate forked another quick mouthful and then managed to say, "Not too bad. Somebody only lost two fingers this time at the factory, so we still managed to keep our spotless safety record."

"That's cool."

Nate was about to shovel more food in, when he spoke up again. "Oh, yeah. Your mother says that a man from the government came by today to ask about your book."

All thoughts of eating ceased in May. Frozen in emotion, like a rabbit in mid-decision, May stared wide-eyed at Nate. _'Finally!' _she exaltedly thought. _'Somebody wants my book! But who?'_

"He did?"

"Yeah. Said something about weapons research and development?" Nate managed to say before breaking down into a fit of laughter from his end of the table. Other family members joined in soon after.

May fumed as her heart sank in a sea of disappointment. She hunched her head down so low in embarrasment that she felt like a turtle. There was nothing wrong with a little fun at the dinner table, but certainly not at _her_ expense!

"Ha, ha," she chuckled mirthlessly as the laughter began to die down. Then, with a tired voice, she entreated. "Come on, Dad, don't tease. I had a rough day today."

"Okay, Sweet Pea," Nate said with a smile. "Just havin' fun with ya."

Lois, from her end of the table, reached over and patted May's hand in commiseration.

"Oh, don't you let you father rile you, Honey," she told her. "Somebody's bound to like your book eventually…someday."

May just pushed the food around in her plate in a funk. "Someday, someday. Yeah, always a 'someday', but never _today_. You know what people tell me to do? Write what I know. But, really, what _do_ I know? How to go to school? How to help with the laundry? How to be a field hand, or how to get dumped by the cutest groom in town? Oh, yeah, I can just see the words flowing across the page."

"Now, May, you gotta be patient," said Nate. "Look at me. Someday I just know my star's gonna shine for me.

May rolled her eyes at him. "Ugh! Dad! Not that old chestnut again. How are you going to have this…DMZ without those vehicle things, if that's what it's for?"

"Ah, but you see," her father continued slyly. "That's _not_ what it's for. It's for getting back at the white man for all of this unnecessary, uncalled-for bullshit he's puttin' us through. I'm simply doing my part, that's all."

Little Huey perked up at his father's words, telling him, unnoticed, "As are we _all_, Father. For example, I've just found out about this delightful little compound that comes from the Castor bean!"

"Well, maybe," May conceded. "But I just hate all of this _waiting_."

"I know how you feel, May. You're young. And the most important thing young people want to do is to make their mark in the world. And someday, when you meet that special someone, you, _too_, will make your mark in the world, and be the best mother you can possibly be," Nate told her.

May thought she missed something in the conversation, or maybe her father had from _his _end.

"Huh? But, Dad, I want to make my mark on my _own_ terms. With my writing."

"You will, Honey," Nate soothed obliviously. "And when you start that family of yours, you know your mother and I will be there to help. You won't be alone, I promise."

May had to sigh. He meant only the best for her, but it was obvious that, in the context of women, Nate was no different that any other man, white or black, and far too set in his ways to understand a rebel like her.

And the fact that her mother didn't defend her just then, only demonstrated that _she_ was in the same camp, probably bolstered by thoughts of little grandchildren running underfoot.

"Yes, sir," May said glumly.

"That's my girl," Nate proudly said. "It'll be alright. Remember what I always said…"

On cue, the children said in various states of enthusiasm, "If Life slaps you in the face, kick it in the balls!"

"That's right," their father commended.

Lois took the opportunity to wag a finger at her eldest son, just as he was putting the finishing touches on the sculpture he was working on earlier. "And Curtis, what have I told you about doing your carvings by the dinner table?"

"To not to," he answered glumly, putting it away and preparing to eat.

May gave a sly smirk at the tableau. A chance to get a little payback from one of the laughers sounded like a perfect idea, and Curtis looked ripe for picking on.

"Oh, by the way, Curtis, I saw what you were whittling earlier," May said teasingly. "You're wasting your time, y'know? That Cassandra D'amico doesn't want to have anything to do with you."

Seeing Curtis' big frame stiffen in shock was like Christmastime to her, so she luxuriated in the moment.

Curtis fixed a defensive glare at his older sister. "Oh, yeah? Well, what makes you think I'm thinking about her, anyway?"

"The fact that you've carved enough nudes of her to fill a bucket, or you're filling a bucket _because_ of the nudes, I can't tell which," she said salaciously. When all eyes fell on him, she knew she had delivered the coup de grace.

It amazed May that someone who looked like a minature Nate Griffin could look so small, as Curtis struggled for a lifeline from such a devastating round.

"W-What are you talking about?" he asked tensely.

Upstairs in Curtis' room, in his closet, on a shelf, was a collection of Cassandra D'amico carvings in various poses, some tasteful, some not so, festooned with a little sash above the display that read _The D'amico Collection._

Curtis was already weighing suitably grim retaliations against his dear sister, when the worse thing in the world happened to him. He dared to take a glance at his mother and saw not disapproval in her eyes, but stinging maternal _pride_.

"Why, Curtis Mayfield Griffin, did you find yourself a sweetheart?" Lois gushed at the news.

"No, no, Mom! Not really!" he yelled in a panic without meaning it.

He turned to look at May. "Mom said to stay out of my room, May! You're not suppose to be there!" He then calmed down and said to her in an unexpectedly snarky tone, "Besides, it's not like _you_ had a chance with that _blacksmith's apprentice_. He was probably going to use you for shoeing practice."

The comment hit May like a blow on the head, and his accompanying laughter didn't help matters. How did he _know_ about that?

Although her dark skin barely showed it, she blushed so hot, she thought her face was on fire. She couldn't even count on her developing literary powers of imagery and wordplay to metaphorically knock him on his broad back.

Crudity would have to suffice. "You take that back, you...you pot belly!"

"Make me, you four-eyed tadpole!" he fired back.

While the War of the Words reached its new plateau, Huey, still scribbling on his piece of paper, lifted his ovoid head up at the distraction and angrily yelled to no one who would notice, "Will you two disagreeable ragamuffins be quiet? If I can't work out the poison compound of this species of Castor bean, I'll never be able to strike a deathblow against The Man!"

As the arguments and motherly calls for civility began to escalate, Nate looked upon all of this familial strife and grinned in relaxed satisfaction.

"Ah, nothing warms a home like the sound of good-natured sibling rivalry."

The swollen moon sat low in the black sky, engaged in its slow fan dance with the clouds on that warm night. To the things that lurked, and moved, and hunted in the dark, rough foot paths and back alleyways of both the poorer neighborhoods and the wealthier, supposedly more secure ones, the moon was the only light worth living by.

The figure felt more at home here in the velvet shadows between the back fences that just barely formed the demarcation of the rows of inferior housing and the surviving islands of nature that bore both the brunt and witness of lackadaisical city planning. The loneliness of hearing the quiet, practiced footfalls in the figure's wake, or the owl in the boughs, or its prey on the ground, was as much pleasure as penance.

The dim, rustic backyards of the dim, shabby houses all looked the same to the figure. All harbored a functioning outhouse of some sad design that stood far from the precious water pumps. All protected by wooden fences that could only laughingly be call maintained. Some were either roughly tilled and turned into vague vegetable, herb, or flower gardens, or left as they were, to let nature reclaim them as a jungle landscape of weeds and broken, half-buried wagon wheels. None of them were lit and all of them were vulnerable.

The figure had mentally paced the distance of the walk in the dark wooded paths, and concluded that the next backyard ahead, was where it should end.

A yard or two across from the yard's fence was a broad tree whose canopied shade hid the figure like a shroud upon his reaching it.

The old Cape Cod house was dark from within, only the faintest lamplight from the master bedroom in the first floor parlor's rear window was visible. With the moon just now hidden by cloud cover; he dared to leave the tree slowly.

The blackness of the cloaked and tattered box coat, trousers and road-worn boots gave The Hooded Coachman more than ample camouflage, as he risked heading further out from the safety of the tree's canopy.

He had garnered more than enough strange looks and fearful stares from those who were questioned and those who simply watched the proceedings, but eventually the truth was ferreted out, and so, he arrived.

His heart and body froze as the back door opened unexpectedly. With a quick, turning leap, he returned to the back of the tree. He hadn't seen who was coming out, but if it was in response to someone miraculously noticing him prowling in the woods, he was thankful for the sap in his pocket.

The sound of a nasally-voiced woman called out from the house's interior, low enough not to disturb neighbors, but loud enough for who ever was coming out to respond.

"May. It's getting late. Time to go to bed."

May, in a cool, white, linen nightgown, stepped out into the backyard, but called back from the back door's threshold.

"I will in a minute, Mom. I just want to step out for some air."

"Alright, but hurry up."

May walked past the pump that stood by the doorway's short brick staircase and slowly strolled into Lois' small, all-purpose garden.

She lifted her head to see the silent drama of the stars, and listened to the distant steam whistles of the ships still moving to and from of the distant riverside. It always struck May that they sounded like the lively heralds of adventure during the day, but sounded so lonely and mournful at night.

The Coachman counted the fleeting moments since he hid. He needed to know who was out there. He heard womens' voices, but it didn't mean that the men folk couldn't have followed them out in secret, preparing to outflank him.

From the depths of his threadbare coat, he pulled the leather and lead cudgel free, mentally weighing the good, familiar heft in his hand. The sap and his hidden blade were his silent weapons and good friends, the rod and staff that comforted _him_, but the guilt of what he may have to do, would not leave him this night.

The Booty of the Night

(Sung to the tune of "The Music of the Night" by Andrew Lloyd Webber)

(Coachman)

_Right and wrong delays investigation,_

_Conscience spurns my shameful occupation,_

_Someone's by the fences, _

_Alone and quite defenseless..._

He turned slowly to peer out from the tree, and saw, as the clouds were finally disrobed from the moon, an earthbound angel.

The moonlight fell on her in a soft, unearthly blue, and made her nightgown look almost diaphanous. She watched the stars wink and twinkle above her, and even took in the view of the dark woods beyond her yard, on occasion, but didn't see him. For his part, his heart had cracked. Cupid had forgone a bow in place of field artillery.

Then May, suddenly curious as to what her mother was growing, casually turned from him and bent down to look. The moment he saw her nightgown-accentuated bottom, the Coachman's infatuation, and now newborn _lust_, fought a war for the history books.

He would never know why he did what he did next. Maybe because he needed to see her more clearly, or maybe because he tired of the miserable life it represented, but he felt the need to free himself from the hood that hid him, right then and there.

Quietly, he slipped the covering from his head, revealing the grateful visage of a young, black male. Yet, as youthful and full as his face was, his eyes bore the dark testimony of his shameful actions. He, however, had forgotten them upon seeing May.

She was his lathe of forgetfulness, his desperate opiate. For one night, this night, he was absolved of all of his sin. For him, she had to have been divinely fashioned.

(Coachman)

_Lovely, enchanting,_

_More than words could render,_

_Grasp it, seize it,_

_Worship and rear-end her  
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_A clever turn of phrase,_

_Can ignite a conversation,_

_And bring illumination and delight…  
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_I'll listen to the booty of the night...  
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_Turn your eyes from society that hurts and schemes,_

_You've been taught naught but lies you've heard before,_

_Own the skies, tell your heart that you want more,_

_And I'll give like I never gave before  
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_Softly, carefully,_

_Slowly, I'll undress you,_

_Touch it, feel it,_

_My rod will impress you  
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_Hope that you won't mind,_

_That my fantasy's aligned,_

_With your hotness, that you know you cannot hide…  
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_The roundness of the booty of the night...  
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_Your behind's a journey to a strange new world,_

_Cleaves all thoughts of the ones I knew before,_

_Let my love take you where you want to be,_

_Or perhaps, we'll stay home and watch TV  
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_Oh, May! Please stay,_

_Sweetest of confections,_

_Your back porch,_

_Inspires my erections  
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_I know that you're modest,_

_But that's when you're your hottest,_

_The power of your beauty's out of sight!  
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_The power of the booty of the night...  
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_You, alone, bring beauty to my life…  
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_Help me take the booty of the…Night  
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Satisfied with what she saw, May sauntered back into the dark house, but gave a curious half-turn back to the yard from the threshold. She thought she heard something out in the woods. Something musical, perhaps?

With a shrug, she reentered the house and closed the door, while her dark admirer disappeared bittersweetly into the shadows.

Fanny's Book Shop wasn't impressive by any architectural standard, just a large, brick corner shop that sat across the wheel-tracked streets from the thoroughfare that led into Rough-and-Tumble, but to May, who stood enraptured in front of its display window that mid-day, after chores, it was El Dorado.

Her household had several books, she knew, from The Bible, to old cookbooks, from a few dime novels, to newspapers, and the most prized and beloved books she had ever known were the old school primer and worn-out dictionary her mother would read to her while she grew up.

But she hungered for more literature, more books, and more things to read. To her recollection, she never had a reason to think herself obsessive, but welcomed this desire of becoming a bibliophile, even if she didn't know what the word meant presently.

From the display inside, the books, with their rich, colorful covers and well-made bindings, were placed in eye-catching stacks and neat, appealing piles. Book pyramids and walls that defied gravity, winding staircases of tomes and pamphlets that were laid out on the floor of the display like waves on a wind swept sea. May's imagination swam free in the product placement. She could see herself in miniature, playing among the open pages, absorbing all of their knowledge, climbing the Tome Pyramids and swimming in the Pamphlet Sea.

And in the center of the literary landscape, on a pedestal of honor, would be an autographed, first edition printing of her book, its title boldly shown on its virginal cover.

As she basked in the enveloping, imaginary glow of intellectual adulation, May chanced to see some movement from the store's interior, a customer making a purchase.

May was about the scan more of the display space for more tantalizing books, when a sign she hadn't notice since she came to the store, hung high off to one side of the window. When she read it, her bookish dreams faded swiftly with a heavy, bitter aftertaste in her heart.

NO BLACKS ALLOWED.

May felt like The Morningstar, looking through the unyielding, gilt gates of a paradise she was never cast out from, and a sad, bitter laugh threatened to burst from her guts. She found it the height of irony that for a people that didn't want her to read at all, they would go through the trouble of printing something like this for her benefit.

Still, she wouldn't go just yet. Unless a constable shooed her away for loitering, window-shopping was still something she could enjoy, however meager. So, she desolately perused the hard and soft-covered fare in silence.

Though the interior of the display was dark enough that one could see the street reflected from the window, May didn't notice the black, nineteen year-old, young man behind her until he spoke.

May jumped and turned at the sound of a greeting she couldn't understand, and attempted to focus her attention on the stranger as if she had just woken up.

His face seemed friendly enough, but she kept her senses and defenses up as she took a look at him.

The fellow casually stood about a half-head taller than her, but raised his hands in a placating gesture to her start. He had a solid build for someone his age, which meant, to her, he certainly wasn't a house slave, yet he wasn't too broad-shouldered. From the faint smell of hay, May figured that he must have worked around horses quite a bit.

Boots, gray work pants, and a French flax linen shirt gave him the appearance of an unskilled worker, but his brown, leather vest and white rabbit's foot on a fob chain, lent a rakish air of adventure to him, as though he traveled much and did much.

'_Not bad looking,' _she thought in appraisal. _'Kinda cute, but I don't think I've seen him around here before. And with all the boys I've been chaising since I've been here, I _know_ he's a new face.'_

She decided to start the ball rolling and speak first, if only to know what it was he had just said to her.

"I'm sorry," she said, composing herself. "I couldn't understand what you were saying. Could you say that again?"

The teen chuckled smoothly and said in a Southern accent that sounded on the cusp of being foreign, "I said, _"bon jour." _That means, "Hello," cher."

"Oh! Uh, hello!" May managed, a little intrigued by the strange words and the strange boy who said them. "I'm sorry I didn't notice you there. I was thinking about something else."

"The books, cher? I take it you were a little upset."

"Huh?" How did he know?

He pointed at the NO BLACKS ALLOWED sign and May gave an embarrassed chuckle at the obvious clue.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I was a little down about that, wasn't I?" she admitted. "I was just wishing I could read them, that's all."

"You can't read 'cause you weren't taught?" he asked in what sounded to May like genuine concern for someone he just met a moment ago.

"No, no. I can read well enough. My mother taught me how when I was younger. I just want to _keep_ on reading, y'know? Why stop?"

When he said nothing and smiled at her, May suddenly wished she hadn't said so much. "Just great. Now I guess you know what a _bookworm_ Iam," she fretted. "I know. No man wants a woman who's smarter than him. Sorry about that. You can laugh now."

"For someone who just met me, you sure don't know me," he placated with a chuckle. "But I know what you mean, cher. I learned how to read from my mama for a while, too. Then I learned from reading old scripts."

That caught her attention. "Scripts?"

"Yep. I'm a traveling actor and my troupe has come to town for a spell. I was taking a stroll 'round the neighborhood and I guess I bumped into you. Not a bad bit of good luck, huh, cher?"

"No, I guess not," May agreed, taking a glance at his good luck charm on his chest. Then a question struck her. "By the way, that word you keep using, _"cher?" _What does it mean?"

That elicited another chuckle, this time it was lower, more sensual. "Oh, I mean nothing by it. It's French, it just means, "dear." "

'_Dear? Whoa…' _

May flushed. "Oh…okay."

"I'm feelin' a little hungry," he said.

"Me, too," May said, without really thinking.

"I saw an open-air market across the street, there. I can get us some apples or something, and we don't have to grace this establisment with our presence. Sounds good?"

May just said, "Uh, huh," again without really thinking.

As they crossed the wheel-tracked street, May had to admit that she was having a hard time thinking about her earlier disappointment at the bookstore. He was looking to be proof positive that there was always something good around the bend.

When they managed to reach the bazaar's fruit carts from the hustle and bustle, and press of customers, the teen offered his hand and said to May, "Forgive my manners, cher. I didn't give you my name. Deuteronomy, but you can call me Dewey."

Upon shaking his hand, May suppressed a threatened shiver, but decided not to give him her name just yet. Then he added, "Strong grip you got there."

"Field hand, since I could walk. You?" she said, with a noticeable tone of pride in his noticing her strength. He was getting high marks in her book for that.

"Same thing for a while. Cotton or tabacco?" he asked amiably, as though their individual trials were as trivial as the steady events of the work-a-day world.

"Cotton."

"Tobacco," Deuteronomy answered, "But I think the ones that pick that new crop from South America are the lucky ones…"

_A vast plantation of marijuana spreads out in the vista, being worked on by field slaves, who, one by one, secretly bend down and disappear into the green field. _

_A moment passes, as a thin wisp of smoke rises and then a giggle is heard, followed by another, and then another. Each accompanying a corresponding puff of smoke. Soon, the entire field is cloudy and erupts with a chorus of wheezing giggles and intoxicated laughs.  
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May looked wistfully upon that image. "Yeah... But still, you're an actor. That must be cool. But, do people still give you a hard time because you're black?"

"'Fraid so, sad to say. But what about you, cher? What do _you_ want outta life?"

"I want to go to Brown University and be a famous writer," she said. "But I get my share of hard knocks, too. I'm a mulatto, so, I guess I thought that being half-white would help me get my foot in the door."

"Doesn't always work out that way, huh, cher?" he sympathized. Then he brightened again. "But, that's okay. There's nothing wrong with a little cream in the coffee. I'm half-n-half, too. What's your name?"

May decided then and there, that if she felt this comfortable talking to him now, it wouldn't hurt to give him her name now. With a guarded shyness, she said, at last, "May. May Griffin."

"A pretty name, if ever I heard one," Dewey said.

May simply shrugged. "I'm glad _you_ think so."

"What? You don't like your name?"

"Well, I do," May sighed. "But...well, you see, when I was born, my parents had to keep my birth a secret, or they'd get in big trouble."

"See, my grandpa _owned_ my dad, but his daughter fell in love with him and married him. When she was pregnant with me, she would just tell Grandpa that she had the "stomach mumps," and needed to rest when she began to swell up. Lord only knows why he believed her, but it worked."

"Well, anyway, at the time, my folks could never decide on what to call me. They'd bandy names about and argue, but nothing was ever resolved. So about two weeks after my birth, my parents were still fussing about names for me, when Grandpa Silas walked in on them in the cellar. Why they had to be in the cellar, I have no idea. Anyway, Mom was caught red-handed breast-feeding me and Dad was a locomotive wreck. He just froze."

"But Mom was pretty quick, though. She told Grandpa that I was a baby born from another slave family and that she bought me from _them_, and that she was just asking Nate what kind of name to give me, since I was Pewterschmidt property now. Dad still just sat there."

"That seemed to do the trick, though, because Grandpa didn't look suspicious any more, just critical, like he was wondering if Mom had made a good buy with me. Then he smiled, which was rare, since, according to my folks, he wasn't burning down a house, swindling someone out of their money, or both."

"He took a good look at me and then suggested, as a joke, that I be named, "May…" "

"_It's perfect, see?" Silas said. "When she grows up and gets put to work, she'll never forget it."_

_Lois and Nate gave the old man a baffled expression. They couldn't see where he was going with this, but because of the dangerous spot they were both in, both were ready to humor him when he finally finished._

"_Because…" he chuckled with self-satisfied pride in his own cold sense of humor. "Because when she says to her owner, "'May' I get this for you?" the owner can say, "Yes, you 'may!'" Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh…oh, I'm funny."  
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"Well, at least it was better than two weeks of, "Come here lil' Something-Or-Other." " May continued. "Anyway, they ducked a serious bullet that day, and I came away with a new name, finally."

_Silas turned to leave the nervous family, oblivious and very pleased with himself. The couple breathed a silent prayer of gratitude at the close call, but froze again when Silas stopped and said from over his shoulder at his daughter, matter-of-factly… _

"_Oh, and Lois, I know you want to make the girl feel right at home and all, but take your tit out of her mouth, will you? You'll spoil her."  
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"See?" May said.

Dewey gave a thoughtful smile at the tale. "I see, but I still think it's a nice name for you. Never mind the reasons."

A coy smile played on May's face. "Awww, thank you. What about you? Why are you called Deuteronomy?"

Dewey, for all his charm, gave May a self-conscious look.

"Ah, well...My mama was sold to a bible salesman before I was born. It was either this...or Gideon!"

Lois had the look of a woman who had denied herself for too long and then suddenly decided to drown in her luxuries.

Inside Samuel Bros. Clothiers, she moved among the shelves and racks of gowns and farthingales like a shark, scanning the best fashions in the area by naked eye alone. It felt good to shop like this, with abandon and saved-up money. It almost felt like the good old days.

She had a fortune to play with then. The world was the biggest oyster she dined upon and self-control was not an option. Her father saw to that.

With a sad smile, she remembered the days when she and her social butterfly compatriots would think of the most scandalous things to do, just for want of doing it. What her friends must think of her now, if at all. The debutant, now the scandalized. The socialite, now the pariah.

At least here, her secrets were her own. She could look into the eyes of other white women and fear no reprisals, due to their ignorance of her past. Through her sacrifice, she proved to her husband, of twenty years, that on this earth, there was no greater love than hers. So, for a little while, when she had the money, or even just to browse, she could come here and treat herself to feeling…_normal_.

Almost immediately the word shamed her. Why did she feel this way? Wasn't her love for her family enough? In the eyes of the law, she was the criminal. In the eyes of her father, she was the whore. Why didn't she _relish _turning her back on all of that condemnation, and just look to the horizon with Nathaniel and the children?

Absently, she picked up another gown and thoughtlessly rubbed her fingers against its surface, gauging the silkiness of the satin finish and hardly feeling it.

The man in the military-style clothing standing behind her was the image of incongruity in a womens clothing shop. A figure of tall bearing and tight handlebar moustache, he stood in impeccably tailored black trousers and shoes, a stately, slate gray Army uniform's caped cloak coat with a leather, bullet-studded bandoleer running from under the cape and across his broad chest, and a pair of tiny, smoked-lens spectacles sitting high on the summit of his hooked nose. He watched Lois with a quietude that was unnerving, like a cat standing motionless before the pounce.

The occasional glances the other patrons gave him didn't faze him a jot as he approached Lois quietly. When he felt he was close enough without disturbing her too profoundly, he spoke to her, in low tones, as if reciting a poem for her.

"Do you feel like a phantom when you come to a place like this? When you walk around the other women, do you understand the sad sacrifice you made? That you may walk amongst these white women, but you'll never be one of them again."

'_Cajun,' _Lois thought first, when she heard his voice. _'But not anyone I know.' _Turning her head to regard him, she maintained her poise, but drew her defenses up tight. _'How could he know? What gave my feelings away?'_

"What?" she asked, trying to hold a poker face and losing.

The man in the military-style clothing gave a mirthless smile and continued his talk.

"That was mighty clever of you. Keeping your marriage a secret, and all. Makes sense, seeing how it's illegal. Made it pretty hard to track you for a while, that's for damn sure."

Lois gritted her teeth behind the strain of attempting to look innocent, eyes flashing from one nearby customer to the next, looking for the faintest hint of curiosity on their part, and screeching black curses in her mind towards the man who didn't seem to care who may have heard him.

"I beg your pardon. Who are you?" she almost seem to growl.

"No one of importance, I assure you," he said as he bowed humbly. "I was wondering, however, if you would be so kind as to read this letter that I was sent to deliver to you?"

Letters? Her secret was probably moments away from being known and gossiped about town, effectively dooming her, and he was doing all of this performance art for a delivery? Despite the fearful visions of losing her family and spending the rest of her natural life in a stockade, Lois beat them down and looked at the messenger with iron eyes and spoke in a soft, steely voice.

"I don't think so. Now leave me alone, or I'll have the constable on your ass so fast, you'll think you're the new guy in a prison shower."

The opposite effect, however, came about, she saw sadly, as the man, instead, grinned and said, almost flirtatiously, "Ooh, you _do_ have sauce, I tell you what. But, I still think you ought to read this here letter. Your daddy would appreciate it."

_Daddy? _

Her throat tightened into a anxious knot, rivaled only by her stomach. The fear of incarceration and familial destruction, now had become _nigh-inevitable_, now that her father, Silas, was involved. Two years. Not nearly enough time to settle down. Not nearly enough time to say good-bye.

"Daddy?" Lois asked in a weakening voice, all bravado leaving her like smoke. "What's this all about?"

The messenger shrugged. "Damned if I know, cher, but I suggest you read the note and come up with your own conclusions."

He reached into one of the coat's slash pockets and smoothly pulled out a envelope. Upon receiving it, Lois could see it was legitimate from the Pewterschmidt crest on the wax seal, a shield bearing the image of a disembodied hand cluching a bag with the American money symbol on its center.

She walked over to a deserted area of the shop and tore the envelope open, the man keeping a respectable distance away.

_Lois,_

_As you know, you've completely disgraced yourself in the eyes of all Pewterschmidts from now to perpetuity by marrying and running away with the farm equipment. The only reason that you're reading this at all is because your mother requested that I contact you. The only reason on God's Green Earth that I would _respect_ such a request is because your mother is dying._

_Not to sound like a Jewish mother, but naturally, I blame you for this, but apparently, your mother wants to see you one last time before she goes._

_I, however, have a small request of my own. When you come back to see her, and we both know you will, after all is said and done, you will _stay_ here at the mansion for the rest of your life. Oh, and don't worry about Nate and the rest of the family. I'm sure they'll be just as…_choked up _about it as you are._

_I'll be throwing a little party to celebrate your returning home, so, if you can, try not to be fashionably late. I don't think your mother would appreciate it. _

_We're looking forward to seeing you again, Lois. You _and_ your family. So we can all take a _stab _at _burying_ the hachet, to _hang_ all of this foolishness, to _kill_ some time, and _shoot_ the breeze, to _drown _our sorrows. Well, you get the idea._

_Silas  
><em>

Lois numbly held the letter by her side. The truth, if it really was the truth, was like a bombshell going off in her hands.

"Mother's…_dying?_"

Like a cataract, the memories of time spent with Margaret Barbara Bush Pewterschmidt rushed into her with a doleful surge. Between the two parents, she got along better with her, but if Lois' father was ever distraught by that fact, he never showed it.

But now Margaret was going to die and their time remaining flowed from Lois' hands like stream water.

The sound of the messenger shifting his weight to stand more comfortably, brought Lois back to reality, forcing her mind to look at this rationally, critically. Everything about this screamed _trap_ to her. For her, in a lesser sense, and for the family, in the truest. She resolved herself to not become the lynchpin to their possible lynch_ing_. She turned to him.

"Even if what he says about my mother it's true. I can't go back there. My life is here in Quahog with my family." She said as she brusquely returned the note to him. "You can tell him that when you see him again."

Again, the messenger took her words with a detached, almost apologetic air. "Well, now, cher, he kind of figured that you might be a _bit_ reluctant see things his way, so he came up with what I think, was a mighty fine idea."

"What?" she asked warily.

"Well, he told me that, if after you've read the note, you still refused to do what he says, he would give me carte blanche to kill your whole family."

Lois' stomach went cold. "No…" she gasped, wishing she could disbelieve those dangerous words. Another bombshell in as many minutes. Silas was becoming, in her daughter's eyes, to be nothing short of the Devil himself. So who was this messenger? An assassin in his private employ?

"The nice thing about this arrangement, I think," he continued. "Is that I still get paid for the full bounty, regardless. I gotta hand it to Mister Pewterschmidt. He can be down right generous when he wants to be. I guess this is the part where I say, 'The choice is up to you,' or something ridiculously obvious like that."

The answer clicked and didn't make Lois feel any better. That's how he tracked them so well.

"Bounty? You're a bounty hunter?"

"And slave catcher by trade," he said proudly. "But it's so rare to find a job that combines both aspects of my profession."

Lois ignored the self-important chatter. Fighting the urge to scream in a panic, and thus cause an unhelpful scene, she desperately asked, "Where's my family?"

The man shrugged innocently in the direction of the front door. "Oh, they're right outside, cher. Snug as a bug."

"Let's go," she ordered.

_The Hessian _stood off by the curb, looking big as life in the sunlight. Its two-horse team snorted as Lois and the man left the shop and walked over to the coach.

Without any fanfair, the man reached over and opened one of the passenger doors, which creaked under the weight of its interior armor plate, presenting Lois a disheartening sight.

Sitting slumped on one side of the passenger area, all the way to the other end of the coach, was the sleeping bulk of Nathaniel Griffin. Across from the father, on the other side of the area, the brothers, Curtis and Huey shared a bench and were also unconscious. All were loosely shackled with chains laced through iron rings bolted into reinforced plating under the bench's padding. The faint scent of a chemical wafted out and Lois's knees momentarily became unsteadied.

"What have you done to them?" she asked as she stepped back a pace, clearing her head.

"Oh, nothing, cher. Just gave them a little something to relax while we take a trip back to Virginia," explained the man. "I gotta say, though, you must be _some_ cook, 'cause your husband and that big boy in there..._whew! _I damned near broke my back getting them in there. I mean, I sure hope my horses can handle the extra weight 'cause I didn't think I'd need Clydesdales on _this_ trip,y'know?"

Miffed, Lois looked at the man with unimpressed annoyance. "Alright, enough with the fat jokes, already. I'll go with you."

Pleased that he wasn't forced to press the issue, the man grandly gestured to the coach's box seat above them. "Your chariot awaits, ma'am. No sense in you riding with-"

Lois started walking back to the open passenger door. "I ride with _them. _They're still my family, and I'll be going with them."

She stepped into the coach and sat next to her sleeping husband, putting a worrying hand on his unfeeling cheek, and a protective watch on her sons.

'_Strange,' _she idly thought. _'I could have sworn I forgot something…' _

The faint scent of ether still tinged the air, and she wondered how long before sufficient exposure would strike her comatose, as well. Quickly seeing an empty pair of seat cuffs, she put them on her wrists in defiant solidarity before sleep would eventually claim her.

"In good times and bad," she said in finality.

The man studied her for a moment, marveling at her serious pluck and feeling a little titillated at seeing her in chains, but mystified as to why she would feel such devotion to essentially future human tree ornaments.

"Hmm, kinky. I like that," he said.

Ultimately, he shrugged it off. Time was fleeing from him, and he had to deliver the guests before his client's wife died.

"Well, let's be off," The Hunter said, and then he closed the heavy door on them.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter _Three-_

May couldn't tell what made her more short of breath or so light on her feet, as she led Dewey through the block to her home; leading him there at such a quick pace, or the fact that she _had_ a young man to lead home in the first place.

Fumbling her key in the lock, May giggled self-consciously for the thirtieth time in as many minutes, drunk on visions of personal success, both professional and romantic.

"I can't believe I didn't have to convince you to take a look at my manuscript," May said with an anticipatory grin. "Not that I _needed_ to convince people or anything…short of attempted blackmale."

"Hmm?" Dewey asked leisurely, leaning against the frame of the front door.

"Nothing!" she said quickly. Then her mind went into feminine wiles autopilot and she tensed as she decided to take a leap of faith. "Anyway, uh, if you didn't need to get back to your people right away, I was wondering, since you're new in town, if maybe you'd, uh, like to…stay for dinner?"

One of Dewey's eyebrow arched in intrigue. "Dinner, huh? Well…I guess I could stay if your folks wouldn't mind. But are you sure about this?"

"Well, why should my parents mind?" May asked, her mind racing with thoughts of _her_ entertaining a guest for once. "It's not like we're sleeping together."

May suddenly felt the air leave her, as though she was punched in the gut. The moment that faux pas stumbled out, May wished she died where she stood. Panicked and blushing, she took a terrified look over to Dewey, who looked pleasantly taken aback, but said nothing.

'_You fool!' _she thought furiously. _'Stop thinking' about his body, and get that cursed door open!' _

"Oh my God! I didn't mean that!" May tried to amend. "I-I meant…that it wasn't a big deal! I mean…not that _you_ being here's not a big deal! I mean-"

Although Dewey was enjoying the frantic backpedal, he brought his hands up quickly to pacify her. "It's okay, cher! Relax! I bet your folks can cook a mean meal, and I'd be right happy to sit with you a spell. What do you think we'll have?"

May sighed relievedly and suddenly knew what it was like to be passed over by the Relationship Angel of Death.

Calming down, she said proudly, "Well, my mom could make the house favorite. The best clam chowder and cornbread meal you ever had!"

Thoughts of a full meal and an even fuller belly had Dewey daydreaming before he asked her in a teasing voice, "So, tell me, cher. You bring _everyone_ you meet up here?"

May's ears warmed. "What? No! Uh, well, no, I'm...just trying to be a good host, that's all. I'll be learning how to make it myself someday."

"Well, then, I have to try it out."

"Well, it might take a few tries, though." May confessed with a self-conscious chuckle.

"I'd been a guinea pig for worse, believe me," he soothed.

"Oh, yeah? Even if it fattens you up?" she continued teasingly.

"Sure, cher." Dewey perked up. "For a man, that's the best kind of woman to marry."

The statement froze Mayin surprise, and she found herself locking her stare into his equally shocked eyes.

'_Was that a…proposal?' _she thought.

Dewey stood dumbstruck. Fearing he would scare her off, and cursing himself for the lack of self-control being on the road so long could create, he quickly switched tact. "I mean…that's…what they say, anyhow."

May shakily recovered from the heady, momentous rush of someday jumping the broom, and finally finished awkwardly working the lock before opening the door.

"Make yourself at home," May bade him breathlessly as they entered the vestibule and she headed up the twisting, center stairway to her room. "You can sit in the parlor."

Dewey entered the silent chamber, choosing the closest seat he saw from him, a rocking chair with a doily on the seat. He opened his senses to receive any notice of other souls in the room, but he knew that it was unnecessary. The house was already empty, save for May and himself. The air was too still, too quiet, and perfumed with the faint, yet recognizable tang of ether.

The Hunter must have come by earlier and caught the rest of them completely off-guard, he figured. Just as he sadly knew _he_ must.

With the greatest reluctance, he traced his strong fingers across the familiar bulge of his sap in his pocket, and pulled it out. Then, with quiet footfalls, he began to turn back to the vestibule, to go up the stairs, into her bedroom, and finish the capture.

Dewey's eyes swept the room noncommittally as he began to leave and it was then that he caught the white of the doily while glancing at the rocking chair again.

A part of him chastised himself inwardly for wasting time with this foolish curiosity. He had to strike her down now, while she wasn't ready, to make this easier, which was laughable, but his hesitation gave him all the impetus he needed to spare May for a few moments, at least.

The incongruity _did_ strike him slightly. It looked too angular to be a doily. It looked more like a square of…what? Cloth? Paper? A card?

He approached it, and was honestly relieved to see a folded sheet of writing paper on the chair's seat. He opened it and read.

Afterwards, he quietly sat down in the rocker and collected his thoughts. He had to. If he didn't sit right after reading what had come to be the most terrible note ever written by Man, he would have tried to destroy May's home with his bare hands. Instead, he put some of his fury into crushing the note in one hand, and hiding his tortured face in the other.

May's descending footfalls could be heard from the doorway of the parlor. Dewey stuffed the crumpled paper in his pocket and brightened his expression before she skipped into the room with the worn first draft in her hands.

"Sorry it took so long. I think my stupid brother tried to hide it from me," she said. "I wonder where my folks went to." Then she took a curious sniff. "And where this smell came _from_."

"It's ether," he deduced for her. "The Hunter's tool and calling card."

"No wonder it smelled like a dentist was working overtime in here," she commented. The sudden remembrance of unfamiliar words, snapped her out of her reverie. "The _who_, again?"

"You better sit down," he told her, standing up and offering her the rocker.

"Okay," May said, feeling more than a little pensive about this sudden shift in mood. "What's going on?"

The birds were chirping merrily in the trees that grew around the neighborhood. The sprightly cat scampered along the thoroughfares in search of food and adventure, and the odd stray dog trotted by, also looking food or something to do.

The following scream seemed to rip the very air above The Griffins' humble home, and successfully drove every animal from the block into a terrified dash for safety.

"Good thing you were sittin'," Dewey muttered.

"Where are they now? Do you know?" May asked, wide-eyed, in a voice raw with panic and rising in octave. She could take anything the world had to throw at her, as was probably her lot, but not this. "Please! If you know, you have to tell me! Where did they go?"

It was torture of the deepest stripe for him. Seeing her trying to wrestle with her confusion in near-hysterics was breaking his heart as much hers. Her grasp of reality, the safety and security of her comfortable, limited world, was threatening to disintegrate around her, but Dewey gritted his teeth, hardened his heart to the guilt rising in his throat like sick, and pressed helpfully on.

Dewey sighed his answer. "They were probably taken by The Hunter."

"Who the hell's The Hunter?" May asked shakily while she wiped her eyes. Getting an answer, any answer, calmed her and gave her something to focus on.

"He's a bounty man and slave catcher. He's pretty well known up and down the states."

"Well, how come _you've_ heard of him?"

'_She needs more answers,' _Dewey thought sullenly. _'She deserves them. I'm already damned for what I've done, and when I lie to her, even when I tell the truth, I know I'm going to lose her.'_

With a sympathetic face, Dewey told her, "Well, I've heard about a rash of kidnappings that look like his handiwork in a few of the towns I've been to."

May seemed to wilt before Dewey, as if all of the energy and life that she had just moments before, fled from her like a bird. "Oh, Lord! W-Why did he take them? What did we _do_?"

_You're a coward!' _he conscience screamed at him. _'And you're selfish, too!'_ He agreed with that assessment. He couldn't dare tell her how he knew anything about her family's kidnapper.

Ever since the moonlight touched her, he wanted May, and he wanted her to want him, just as much, but full disclosure would destroy every bit of that fantasy.

Yet, despite the fearful intrigue, he still desperately wanted to help her. Wanted to, because he fell in love with her. Needed to, to claw out of Hell.

'_Be an actor,' _he thought tactically. _'Control your audience.'_

He needed her to come to the right answers, without his input. Or rather, without _too much _of his input. With reverse psychology, he could play a delicate, risky game with her. This would assist her, as he desired, but as distraught as her mind was, he was having a hard time convincing himself that he wasn't just making a bad situation worse.

"He only does what he was paid to do. So, I guess the question would be, who paid for all of this? Who wanted this to happen?"

As he hoped, May was a fighter, and had clung onto a few scraps of inner control. She leaned back in the rocker, frowned, and ruminated in pained silence.

'_Come on, May.' _he thought hopefully. _'Figure it out. Put it all together, now. I _know_ you can!'_

He relaxed and breathed a silent sigh of gratitude when he saw her sit up with the look of an incredulous solution dawning across her face.

"No way…_Grandpa?_"

He put on his best innocent face. "Who?"

"Silas Pewterschmidt, my grandfather! You know, the whole 'May' name thing I told you about? We escaped from his plantation around two years ago so we could be a free family up north. He must have done all of this to get back at us."

"Well, then," he said with honest trepidation, "Now that that's been figured out, I guess…we're just gonna have to go…get 'em back, cher."

May almost laughed at him. "_How? _What can I _do_? I want 'em back home in the worse way, Dewey, but that means going all the way back to _Virginia_ to look for them. And it wasn't that easy getting _here_! I'll probably end up dead. Or worse, a slave again, but that's okay, I suppose, because if that happens again, I'd _rather_ die. But how does that help _them_? Oh, Dewey, I just want my family back!"

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Dewey asked, a little surprised at how resolute his voice was beginning to sound. "I said _we'd _have to get 'em back, not just you. We'll just have to figure something out, that's all."

May found herself focused on the young man. She didn't know him from Adam's housecat, but he was volunteering himself so quickly for her.

This horror story of a situation had shaken her to the core so badly that she needed someone to take the pain away, whether it was a stranger or not. So she sat tensely on the rocker, wanting to believe him, wanting to trust him, and clinging onto every word of his pep talk like it was the last life preserver.

"You're right, Dewey. I-I have to try. _I have to try_. I mean…I can't live in this world alone. Not without my family, Dewey. We're _all_ we have, here."

A sense of tragedy seized Dewey's heart with a fist of ice, but he seized it right back, and changed it into one of sincere, if uncertain protection for her.

He looked at her sadly, nervously wringing his hands. "I know, May. And if it…means _anything_ at all, if worse come to worse…I'll…I'll look after-"

"But are you sure about this?" May asked him, wracked with fearful vacillation, and not really listening to what he was struggling to say just now. "Do you really think we can do this? I-I mean, I want my family to come back, but what if we don't make it?"

That thought had gripped him by the heart with icy fingers, too. But he knew that he couldn't help her get anywhere while they both were frozen with indecision in an empty house. They had to act.

Holding her by her shoulders and looking deep into her fear-stricken eyes with iron conviction, he said, as much for his benefit, as for hers, "Hey! Don't talk crazy, now. You hold strong, and if you want your people back bad enough, they will be. I'll…help you get 'em back. I promise."

And with those last two words, Dewey knew he sealed his fate alongside hers. For good or ill, it had begun, yet seeing May's face light up for the smallest glint of hope, made the coming dangers seem, at least for now, so much more bearable.

"Honestly?"

"Damn right, I will!" He said with false bravado, trying to cheer her up, and simultaneously trying to stop his own shaking. "Besides, how can I enjoy any of that delicious clam chowder, if your folks are serving it to Saint Peter?"

The second he saw May's crestfallen face, Dewey truly regretted hearing himself say that. He fell flat on his face with that nervous joke, and the speed in which May began to tear up was something to behold.

"Oh, that didn't come out right, did it?" he asked her in remorse.

May couldn't fight back the fears any longer. Though she tried to be brave for the both of them, the dire thoughts and violent images of every family member killed and dumped in a dark Virginia wood somewhere, made her break down, at last.

"_Waaaahh! Dewey!"_

"No, no, May! I'm sorry, honey, honest!" Dewey said, valiantly trying to calm her down and stop her most sincere Lucile Ball impression. "I-I was just _hungry_, that's all. I-It's just my stomach talkin'! I swear!"

As he protectively held a completely wrecked teenaged girl in his arms, and wondered about the possibility of home flood damage due to May's barely controlled bawling, he grimly thought, _'All in all, this isn't the way I wanted to hold you in my arms.'_

The immense Quahog Harbor, just south of Downtown Quahog, berthed, in Dewey's opinion, the best means to get through the first hurdle of the trip for them, the pride of The Fall River Fleet, the massive and opulent paddle steamer, _Plymouth._

Normally, when the great steamships would come to port or leave it, May would only see the sun-brilliant squares trailing smoke on the horizon from her spot on Rough-and-Tumble's only bridge. Now she consciously took in all she saw when she and Dewey reached the busy harbor.

The day was bright and fair, with favorable winds, and if she wasn't burdened with the need to somehow get aboard a fast steamer with very little money, she could have just stayed and watched the deep, magnificent river flowing from Narragansett Bay, breathed the bracing sea air, heard the calling seagulls and busy dockworkers, and spied on the visiting, well-dressed tourists and departing travelers.

"I used to see these ships all the time. I never thought we'd actually get a chance to _ride_ in one." May admitted with a nervous smile, as she heard the stirring song of the hoots of ships' steam whistles and the clear ring of their bells.

"If we don't get caught, God willin'," Dewey said. "Between the two of us, I don't think we have enough to get _one_ of us a ticket, much less the both of us, so we may have to sneak aboard. By the by, cher, why did you bring that book of yours with you?"

"You never know." she said, smiling with anticipation. "There might be a wealthy publisher on board who's looking for that next big story."

"Well, I'd be more interested in not getting thrown in the brig, or worse, the sea." Dewey took a look around and saw an alley across the street from the harbor.

"Which reminds me. Let's go in here," he said. Holding her hand, he led her into its shady depths.

Locating an old vegetable crate, Dewey put it to use as a footstool, placing one foot on top of it, and then pulling up his pant leg.

May started to wonder what Dewey was doing, when she saw what was secured about his leg and understood.

Dewey began untying a sheath holding a whetted knife, from around his shin.

"Things'll get a bit sticky from here on out," he instructed. "So you'll need to defend yourself. Okay, put your foot up here."

May complied and put her foot where his foot now vacated. He kneeled before her and was about to tie the sheath to her, but then looked uncertain. Propriety had stopped him from lifting her skirt up from around the offered leg.

Something May herself had caught. She wondered if he actually would touch her dress, and deep down, wondered even more if she would _let _him. In the end, she spared him the discomfiture and gathered the skirt's material up along her caramel leg, all the while watching his reactions.

Dewey's mind was a muddle of careful deliberation and raging hormones. He was so physically close to her now, closer than he ever dared for the short time they knew each other. He brought the leather sheath to her warm calf, and couldn't help noticing how her petite frame gave her leg a shapely fullness.

She wasn't skinny, and had some meat on her bones, and he was glad that such a girl appealed to his homegrown aesthetic. It meant, he knew lasciviously, that besides looking healthy, she had the kind of body he could grab hold of, if the animal in him ever leapt out and took over. With her permission, of course.

For May, his touch was electrical. Every rub of contact with his fingers as he carefully and firmly tied off the sheath, created dangerous thoughts in her mind, and made her fingers slightly claw in yearning.

The desirous, non-churchgoing side of her wondered how much _higher_ on that leg would he "accidentally" explore with those fingers. It also made her take stock in the fact that they were, for the most part, unnoticed, in an alley, and the resulting fiery image of the two of them tearing at and _into_ each other, riskily and lustfully, like two stray cats, made her heart dance.

Lost in grip of such erotic reverie, she dreamily looked down to see him looking up at her, mouth moving.

"I said," he said to her. "Is it too tight?"

"No. I don't think I'm too tight, but that's sweet of you to say," May said, coyly distant.

"No, cher." Dewey said, slow enough for her to understand through the haze of her love-addled brain. "The straps?"

"I'm sorry, but not on a first date," she said dreamily.

"For the _knife_?" he pressed, loud enough for the spell to be broken.

"Oh! Uh, no. It's fine. Thank you."

Dewey still was on bent knee to her, contemplating, for the moment, why it felt so right remain thus, but he eventually rose.

"Uh, I'll teach you a few tricks with it when we find some time. Until then, keep it hidden, and don't use it unless it's really necessary. White folks won't need much of a reason to throw us in the jailhouse if they see us carrying weapons around."

"Alright," May said soberly, as she stood up and straightened her dress, her mind getting back on track.

As they returned to the crowded, harbor side of the street, they could just see from the wharf, the _Plymouth_, already docked and receiving additional provisions, cargo and incoming baggage via crane and pulley, offloading outgoing baggage, and allowing people to either embark or disembark from its steep, lengthy gangways.

"Looks like the cargo's the way to go. Okay, like I told you. Act like you're _supposed_ to be there," Dewey said.

Holding hands and lifting them to shoulder height, with their heads held high, noses lifted in the air, and their other hand placed daintily on their hips, they both force-sashayed through the entranceway into the harbor proper.

In and outgoing people turned to notice the two strange black kids strutting by and calling out words like "Hoi Polloi," "Money," "Fashion," and "La-di-da," before they moved past them.

When the two were out of earshot, the white, moneyed crowds resumed their earnest conversations consisting of those very same words.

Once they walked a far enough within without being harassed, May and Dewey looked seaward, across the distant pier the two lanes of passengers were marching along, and spotted the large wharf sheds and the wide, off-limits loading dock, or apron, that was servicing the steamer that was berthed to it.

The two strolled up the pier through the passengers' outgoing lane, keeping very aware of their footing, due to the fact that the pier, dangerously, didn't have any railing whatsoever, and the currents and waves below it looked threatening.

It wasn't until they reached the imposing side of the sheds and broke away from the human traffic, that the immensity of the place and their challenge to find somewhere to stowaway, became clear.

The whole of the apron was a wide maze of crates and barrels of various sizes, overhung with dark gantry crane arms and cargo netting, all under the steely shadow of the floating colossus of _Plymouth_. The wharf's sheer size threatened to confuse and separate the two trespassers.

Moving together in sync to slip unobtrusively around the shadowed walls and periphery of the buildings, they eventually managed to slink past harbor security and the various gangs of longshoremen, getting in without incident.

"What are we looking for?" May asked, wandering further from Dewey, by increments, as she moved in and out among wooden containers. She peered at a large crate nearby, absently checking at its sides.

Dewey, hearing her voice starting to fade, was doing likewise a few feet away at a similar sized container. "A box we can get into, cher. If I can crack it open, maybe we can squeeze in."

The two shadows that quietly followed Dewey were so large, they could have rivaled a tree's shade. They moved like huge, silent, black sharks around the crates and boxes, and betrayed nothing of their presence to the teenager.

Dewey could only hear the sound of the crate's wooden slates creak as he felt along its surface for weak spots to enter from. The loud puffing of steam engines and derricks lifting freight to Plymouth's deck, the yelled-out orders of the boss stevedore, and his men's responses, and the lapping of the river's strong waves on the wharf's sacrifice pilings and structural support, filled his ears with ambient noise, and so masked the shadows' approach from behind him.

It wasn't until he noticed that the only thing he couldn't hear was May, that he finally stopped his probing and stood up straight to focus his hearing and call her.

By then it was too late. The sound of quick, purposeful movement made him turn to look up and see a rush of flesh coming down from on high and seize his throat.

"Dewey?" May called from within the space between four surrounding crates. He didn't call back and she began to worry that he or she was much too far away from the other and was swallowed up in the labyrinth.

She focused her mind to the task of trying to remember her steps, and slowly began her awkward journey of backtracking and correcting her previous path, eventually returning roughly to where she had her last conversation with Dewey.

May cautiously stepped away from the landmark crate to call out to him again, when she saw something that made her freeze frightfully.

Two huge dock workers, larger, in her estimation, than even The Bookends, stood together a few yards from her, but didn't hear or notice her, due to their preoccupation with the young man in their grasp.

Dewey, using both hands and as much leverage he could generate, tried to pull from the black dock worker, who held him aloft with ridiculous ease, and one hand, while the white one took his ease, casually watching him struggle.

May ducked back around the crate, unseen.

"First The Bookends, now _these_ two?" May whispered to herself in consternation. "Where am I? Monster Island?"

She peeked back around the crate and saw more of the same. He wasn't going to get loose as long as they were focused on him.

Exhaling, May tried to calm down. "Okay. Okay. I gotta sidetrack 'em some how." She looked around for something, anything to use as a distraction. Nothing easy, and nothing fiery came to mind, either, and if, by some miracle, she had something of that nature, accidentally setting Quahog Harbor ablaze would ultimately get her nowhere.

While she kept looking down to check for suitable things on and around her person to use, and finding none, she soon realized that looking at _herself_ was, regrettably, the only answer.

"Well, I guess I've got no choice." May gulped, as she could see no other quick option open to her while Dewey was getting the life choked out of him. She was just thankful that he didn't attract a bigger audience than he did.

Doing her level best to shove her modesty into the deepest, darkest hole in her psyche, May apprehensively stepped out from behind the crate, feeling as though she was about to consciously walk of a cliff, and faced the dock workers.

May squared her shoulders, opened her stance for support, and clutched the already low neckline of her dress. She took a breath.

"Hey, fellas!" she cried out.

As she hoped, the two workers' attentions shifted to May automatically. Unfortunately, so did Dewey's, but she just pushed past her discomfiture concerning that, and pressed on.

She gritted her teeth, fought her enflamed blushing, and stretched her neckline down far enough that her breasts popped out of her bodice, exposing them.

From where she was, May could see that Dewey, despite his face turning a slow shade of purple, to match her terra-cotta blush, was rather impressed.

The same, however, couldn't be said of the two men, who stared at her as though she were a pest who had the poor grace of crawling on a wall and was seconds from extermination.

The black dockworker focused his stare on May, and she felt his eyes rove all over her, but the action didn't match his expression. His visage, like his partner's, didn't convey lust, surprise, or even alarm. Just dismayed disregard.

"Okay, Ms. Thing. Not impressed," the huge, manly-looking stevedore said in a voice so fey and catty, he could have been mistaken for one of Madame Quagmire's girls whenever they had a disagreement. "Put those things away, and if anybody asks, just tell 'em you fell down the stairs."

Both men gave a lilting, haughty laugh at her expense, and May was so dumbstruck by the two of them, that it took a few seconds longer than she normally would have reacted to realize that a). She was the butt of their small-chested joke, and b). She was still exposing the _subject_ of that jest in plain sight of them.

Embarrassed, May quickly brought her neckline back up, and went so far as to self-consciously cover her clevage behind her crossed arms. She wanted to help Dewey escape, but only succeeded in showing him way more than she wanted to, and they weren't even on their first date, yet.

She forced down her anxiety and pointed at the two men.

"Let him go!" she demanded.

The white dockworker gave May a critically dismissive eye, and chuckled to his friend, or, as far as May and Dewey could deduce, his boyfriend.

"Ooh! Check _her_ out!" he scoffed in an equally fey voice. "The Mouse That Roared! You ain't going nowhere, honey."

Dewey, noticing his captors' concentration on May, was given a bit more hope, so he renewed his struggling in the big man's grip, but, literally, for the life of him, he still couldn't break it.

The black man gave an annoyed glance at the boy, and then gave him a sharp shake that threatened to throw him into unconsciousness. Dewey finally stopped protesting.

"And you, little man, best stop all that squirming. My friend and I eat guys like you for breakfast."

As if on cue, his friend chimed in salaciously. "That's right...and if we're _really_ mad at you, we'll beat you up!"

In reaction to that, the black worker lifted Dewey like a half-empty sack and threw him bodily into May with surprising accuracy, just so he could give his partner a hearty high-five and laugh once more.

"You're just too bad, girl!" he told him.

"I know, I know," the white man said proudly. "It's a gift."

The two stopped gabbing long enough to nonchalantly see the two trespassers untangling themselves from the ground, with May unsteadily rising and attempting to get her bearings from the knockdown, and Dewey trying both to stand, and get his voice and wind back.

The black man folded his telegraph pole arms across his billboard-sized chest, confident that the little pests couldn't possibly escape, and said, "I don't know what you and your brother are doin' here, but-"

"He's not my brother," May corrected him as she finally stood comfortably again.

"Well, _cousin_, then," the white worker said, hazarding a guess.

"He's not my cousin, _either,_" May said, a little testily.

The two men exchange surprised glances at one another. Looking at May, they couldn't believe it. The black man decided to give it one last guess.

"_Boyfriend?"_

When she fell silent and didn't correct him, the white worker chimed in again.

"Well, he doesn't ask for much, do he?" Both laughed again and May fumed in a funk, oblivious to her predicament.

That oblivion was lifted, however, when the black dockworker quickly inhaled and blew out a sharp whistle into the air.

Instantly, more dock workers, smaller than their two co-workers, but just as mean, came out from around the cargo of the dock, brandishing crowbars, wrenches, and other tools as makeshift weapons, and circling May and Dewey menacingly.

The black worker, followed by his friend, nodded to himself, and slammed his huge fist into his open palm in anticipation to the imminent dust-up.

"That's right, you two. There are thieves in the temple tonight, and we're gonna Batdance up and down your asses," he said with a grin.

As the crowd started to close in, May and Dewey, as if in shared thought, knew space would be at a premium, and so, stood back-to-back, brandishing blade and sap, and watching for the closest worker to move in, and occasionally glancing over at the two man mountains.

With a grim, frightened, and yet, ironic smile, May never thought that she would ever get into a brawl in a steamship dock, while trying to stowaway on a ship that would take her halfway to one of the most dangerous places in the Union for her, all in a foolhardy attempt to save her family…_from her family!_

'_If I ever make it out of this,' _she thought seriously. _'This'll make a damn good book.'_

But one problem at a time, she knew. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked Dewey, "Are you alright?"

Dewey recovered his voice and gave a curt, regretful nod, while still keeping his eyes on his opponents. "Yeah, cher. Sorry I brought you here. If I can draw enough of 'em to me in a fight, do you think you can get out in the scuffle?"

That elicited another glance from May, more incredulous than hopeful. Pain and she were old friends, and she was no stranger to a beating, deserved or otherwise. Abandoning Dewey? She hadn't even considered that.

"What? I'm not running out on you. Okay, it may look bad, but it's like my dad used to say, 'If Life slaps you in the face, kick it in the balls.'"

Dewey never once heard her say not to sacrifice himself for her, or if he'd be all right alone without her. She stayed her ground, with her back to his, and with the world against them.

'_My God, May Griffin,' _he thought. _'You are perfection.'_

The crowd was almost at arms' length now, and Dewey mentally prepared for the fight, quite possibly, of his life.

He still wanted her to escape, especially if the fight became terminal, but he also knew, grimly, that if she did that, she would _still_ die. The failure of her family's rescue would see to that.

'_But then again…' _he tried to think optimistically.

"Well said," he commended her. "I'd like to meet your dad someday, cher."

May stiffened. As much as she loved her father for his hard-won pearls of wisdom and his abiding love for his family, his lowbrow, self-deprecating, and sometimes almost self-_defecating_ humor, sometimes had May wishing she were sold off at an early age.

"No, you don't," she warned him in a quick deadpan.

The crowd, as one, closed in on them like a hand, but before the first blow could be thrown, struck, or blocked, a girl's voice screamed in the air, stopping everyone.

"Wait! Don't fight 'em! I don't think they owe money!" she called out.

The mob slowly fell away from the center, some dispersing, others staying close by.

May and Dewey now had a clear view of their surroundings once more, but very little visibility on their benefactor.

It wasn't until the girl, dressed in a cap, greasy overalls, and a pair of work gloves, stepped from behind a crate that was oriented in the direction that led to the entrances of the wharf sheds, that May expressed surprise.

"Heather?" May gasped. "What are you doing here?"

The Irish girl's recognizable face, freckles and smile shone from under the worn brim of the cap.

"I'm with my father and uncle. See?"

May and Dewey followed Heather's gesture to a banner that hung over the closest entranceway of a shed that said, "Take Your Daughter To Work Day," and under that, in smaller print, "Sponsored by the Department of Child Labor."

"But, why are _you_ here?" the girl asked May back.

The two black teens walked over to Heather while May explained, "To tell the truth? We're trying to get on board that ship you're loading. Could you help us out?"

All three children turned to the sound of another man approaching them. A big fellow in patched work clothes, with a mane of rudish hair that his bowler had trouble containing, sauntered up to them.

"Heather," the man asked her in a deep brough. "Who are these people? Do ye know 'em?"

"Dad," his daughter said while gesturing to May. "This is May. She's the one who saved me from those hooligans the other day. They want to know if you and Uncle can help get her and her friend on that ship?"

The man looked May up and down appraisingly. "So it was _you_, was it? Well, lass, ya made a boon friend of Sean McDonald this day, but why do ya want to do such a daft thing? Haven't ya any money?"

"No, sir. And I don't think it would have mattered anyway," May told him solemnly. "My family's been kidnapped, sir, and we have to get to Virginia to save them. Please, sir."

The longshoreman mulled it over. There was danger to be had on all sides for this. Danger for the two of them if they should get caught. Danger for his and several men's jobs, should _they_ get caught. But family was worth the risk. The journey of immigrants like him was proof of that.

"Hmm. Then I suppose you'll be needin' to be on this here ship, then," he decided finally.

May had to ask just to be sure she heard correctly. "You'll help us?"

"Aye, lass, we will," he sighed apprehensively. "It's a good thing ya ran into us when ya did. This ship'll be shoving' off in a few minutes. We'll get ye up with the last load, but ye better hurry."

"Yes, sir! Come on, Dewey!"

The two were led to a large pallet, where a squat pyramid of crates sat in the center of an open cargo net. Someone had thrown Heather a weather-beaten tarp from the top of an old crate and she handed it to Dewey.

Turning to the man who tossed the covering to her, Heather said to him, "Thanks, Uncle Ronald."

The clown, Ronald McDonald, standing by the old crate, gave his niece an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

"Dad wants ya both to get to the top of the stack, and then to put this tarp over ya, to hide, until yur in the ship's hold," she told them.

May grasped Heather's gloved hands in gratitude. "I know we haven't known each other long, Heather, but I want you to know that we really appreciate this. Even if we some how don't make it, thank you."

"No need to apologize. I'd probably screw up the courage to do the same, if my clan was in trouble. I just hope yurs'll be alright out there."

"Thanks," May said with a sigh, before taking a look up the side of the massive vessel. It was going to get worse before it ever got better. "You'd think living in a free state, we wouldn't have to go through all of this crap. I thought we were citizens, too."

"Not to them," Heather said to May with a knowing smile. "Yur _black. _But that's okay. Some folks just can't handle that."

With an understanding chuckle, May gave Heather a hug.

"Godspeed to ya, May," Heather said into May's shoulder.

"God bless you, Heather. You and your folks."

May quickly broke from the embrace and clumsily began ascending the boxes, silently hoping not to get splinters, and thrilling at the coming prospect of travel, at last.

Eventually she reached the top and marveled on the view it gave. From this vantage point, she could see over the maze of the wharf's apron over to the nearly vacant passenger area. Heather's father was right, it was just about time to leave, and May gave a shiver of anticipation.

Dewey, pulling up the tarpaulin, and climbing awkwardly because of it, arrived a few moments later. He sat beside May and draped the cumbersome covering over them, leaving their faces uncovered so they could take their last looks at Quahog, Rhode Island.

The booming steam whistle of the _Plymouth_ heralded the slow cinching of the cargo net up around the crates and their hidden cargo.

May spared a few moments to slip her hand out from under the tarp to wave back to a frantically waving Heather. As soon as she felt the mountain of boxes shudder and lift into the air, May quickly slipped her arm back in and wrapped both arms around Dewey's, squeezing it for protection. Although the trip up would be typically slow and steady, her heart hammered as though she were on a runaway cart.

Through the opening of their tarp shroud and the wide spacing in the net's mesh, May could see the vista of fledgling urban sprawl, and endless, blue river grow wider and more unbelievable with every yard they rose.

She didn't dare look down from the boxes. She just continued to clutch Dewey and look ahead, exploring the landscape that was descending and flattening out with overhead detail as fast as they escalated.

May decided to look up, and saw the firmament gradually rushing to meet her. Its openness captivated her like nothing else. It was such a simple, yet unreal experience, that she feared if she thought too hard on it, it would turn out to be a dream, and anchor her back to earth once again.

A breeze caused the net to sway slightly, and the two teens were so exhilarated by the freedom and the terror, that they hardly knew that they were holding each other for dear life. They took a spare moment from the spectacle to glance at each other and saw that they both were grinning and holding their breath, for dear life was exactly what they were holding onto at that moment. Dangerous, delicious life.

The crane hoisted the cargo to its zenith before it began its careful swing over the maw of the steamer's hold. The sounds of crewmen and other longshoremen could be heard from below and the two stowaways huddled closer to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible. Hopefully, the workers would have been so busy finishing up the loading, that they wouldn't notice a tarp-covered lump on the stack of crates.

With the guidance of the stevedores, the cargo sank into the darkness of the ship safely and without incident. Afterwards, the hatches were closed and sealed, and no one had even suspected that two souls had the audacity to slip on board.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter _Four-_

"Shh," Dewey ordered May as they quietly threaded their way from the pillars of crates and fields of barrels to reach the hatch that led from the main hold to the rest of the ship's interior. In their wake, two members of the _Plymouth's_ crew lay on the cold steel floor, heavily stunned.

"How did you know that your book would knock out those two?" he asked as they left the hold and entered a narrow passageway.

"I _didn't_," May answer with a hint of defensiveness, holding her manuscript securely. "It fell out of my hand when we got off the crates. I guess those two were just curious. Where to, now?"

Ignorance of the ship's layout stymied them, but staying where they were was risky. They had to move, even if just to scout around. Dewey decided to lead May down the passage until it turned and opened out onto a somewhat wider hall, illuminated by portholes on the side.

"We'll stay in the hold if we have to, cher," he whispered to her. "But I'm hopin' we'll find someplace better for the trip. Bad enough we'll be livin' like rats, without having to eat 'em, too."

Peering around its corner, he could see no one, but looking on the wall, nearby, Dewey noticed stenciling indicating that bearing down the hall would take one to the either the engine/boiler room, the staircase leading up to the main deck, or the equipment room.

Motioning May to stay where she was, Dewey trotted quietly up the hall.

After a few yards, he past the alcove that sheltered the stairs leading to the upper deck. He stopped to listen for descending footfalls, and miraculously heard none.

Going further up the hall, he reached another turn-off. This time leading to a similar narrow passageway to the one they both entered from the hold. Along its length, it sported two reinforced hatches across from each other, at the halfway point.

Running back to the stair alcove, which he felt was the halfway point of the corridor he was already on, he hissed loudly down the hall for May.

May leaned out cautiously and saw Dewey gesturing rapidly for her to run to where he was. She quickly complied.

As soon as she was a few yards from him, Dewey fearfully tensed. Regulation-style shoes could be heard clanging down the metal stairwell, and as she came closer, the footsteps rang louder.

May didn't need to hear Dewey's warnings about ship's personnel approaching; she could see it in his widening eyes.

As soon as she reached him, Dewey grabbed her by the arm and frantically led her away from the alcove, just as legs marched down to the last landing in the staircase.

They flew around the corner up ahead, just as a steward reached the corridor, stopped to take his bearings, and then preceded to walk in the teens' general direction.

Dewey and May scrambled to the hatches, knowing that their very running was probably giving them away. Both doors gave the possibility of hope to them, if they could open them.

May turned and read the words "Boiler Room," stenciled on one side of the hall, then began struggling with the hatch's wheel to open it, which refused to turn and was apparently locked, for whatever reason, by the engineers from the inside.

Dewey attacked the hatch wheel of the chamber stenciled as the "Equipment Room." With a squeak, it opened, and Dewey reached over and pulled May into the large, dark room, closing the hatch moments before the steward rounded the corner on the far end of the corridor and walked down it.

The two teens huddled in the dark, forcing their bodies not to make the slightest noise. Their ears focused on the doorway, praying that the footsteps wouldn't stop there and herald the discovery that would finish the trip before it even started.

The closer the sound came, the higher the stowaways' fear rose, until it match in perfect synchronization with the sound landing right outside the doorway.

Then it began to fall away, receding as their corresponding terror began to, until the only thing they could hear was the ambient noise of the massive engines in the next chamber across from them, and a curious mix of sounds in the room they were in. A strange fusion of machinery, the slight shuffling of moving bodies…and a deep, heavy inhalation.

The room looked to be roughly half the length of the hold, but felt just as stuffy. Before them was open, utilitarian space that served as a makeshift lounge, sporting four long, metal tables and chairs of various cast-off styles.

Everywhere they stepped, they could feel the many, many rivets and welded seams that held the iron floor plates securely. The walls were dark and just as sturdily held together, laced with conduits, pipes, and valves, like the veins and arteries of some steel beast's innards, some of them releasing the occasional pent-up steam burst, obscuring the room in places.

"Stay frosty," Dewey told her. "We don't know who's here."

May stayed close to his side, watching their collective backs. "Affirmative."

The throaty noise in question was coming from the farthest end of the wide room, which was noticeably brighter that everywhere else.

Illumination proved to be better there, and the two of them could see that it was coming softly from a second, longer chamber up ahead, set apart from the improvised lounge by a wide bulkhead archway, that was flanked on either side by a closed door. A stylized man and woman were painted on each door, respectively, with a short, serpentine line coming from one of the ankles.

Getting drawn closer to the source of the sound, May and Dewey ventured through the portal and into the brightening chamber. Stopping, they had to blink back the painful sunlight that came in through two large portholes in the wall at the room's far end.

As their eyes started to adjust, they could make out something up front. Below the two portholes was a table, or something that resembled a table until one looked more closely. On its surface were small colored bulbs, a wide panel of tiny switches with small corresponding nameplates next to each, an ornately painted clock face, and a strangely cut keyhole by its side.

Sitting high between the two windows, was something resembling a curve-backed, metallic, open framed chair with pedals, that looked too tall to seat a person, and was folded up against the wall by what looked to be a series of multi-jointed mechanical arms.

May was about to take another step towards the chair and table, when some clear liquid fell from the shadowy heights of the ceiling and landed on her shoulder. A sound, not unlike a staccato breathing was heard, just then, and it put them on edge.

More clear liquid trickled on her shoulder again, and when enough droplets had hit her with sufficient impact and frequency that she finally noticed, May decided to see what it was so she could avoid it. She took a curious look up, and alerted Dewey with an uncontrolled gasp.

Barely touched by the sunlight, in the gloom of the ceiling, about fifteen feet above their heads, stretching from the archway entrance to the porthole wall, were two great steel cylinders on either side of the room.

Both were ringed in twenty places with rotating flanges attached to bronze, multi-jointed arms, resembling the biomechanical limbs of an immense insect. Hoses, exposed gear work and thin pistons hung almost haphazardly among the folded arms, and wisps of escaping steam made the whole apparatus even more difficult to discern visually.

But it wasn't the partially obscure machinery above that made the couple freeze in incredulity. It was what they saw being held in those steely arms.

People. Sleeping.

At the end of each folded arm was a type of cradle, where black men, women and children, in liveried crew uniforms, were all resting. Each cradle was supported from its heavily hinged bottom in a locked position of 15 degrees forward.

The cradles consisted of an open frame style, like the porthole chair, but was crudely structured ergonomically to support a person as though he or she were lying face down on a padded and hinged, humanoid framework.

One of two young boys sleeping directly above May had his mouth open, slack-jawed, and drool was drizzling out from within. With a groan of exasperation, she ran out from under the torrent and began to look for a cloth for her dampened shoulder.

Turning back to go look in the lounge, May stopped dead in her tracks. Dewey, who had been staring at the snoring mass of humans above, didn't notice May's quiet distress until he glanced over at her still form facing the way back.

When he looked over at what she saw, he tensed in anxiety and action, as well.

Three people stood by the archway, two men and a woman, looking at the two of them, not in alarm, but in anticipation. As though they were waiting for the two of them to arrive. If it had anything to do with the people being hung up in the ceiling, May and Dewey thought, it might have been better to be caught by the white crewers.

The woman with the salt-and-pepper hair, a housekeeper, from the look of her uniform, pointed over to May, good-naturedly, and said, "I see Leaky Faucet's got you, huh?"

May stood confused. The woman clarified by pointing at her own shoulder.

"He drools in his sleep. Sorry about that. If we didn't mop up the puddles he leaves behind, I'd swear he'd rust a hole in the ship."

Dewey and May still stood in place, unsure of what to do.

One of the men, far oldest of the three, stepped from the threshold, amiably, and reached over to them, shaking the teenagers' slack hands.

"Forgive my manners. My name is Governor. I'm the supervisor in charge of Ebotics Operations here on board," he told them. He then gestured back over to his two compatriots. "The stout fellow in the work apron is Smokestack, engineer class, and you've met the lovely Lens, domestic class, just now."

"What?" was all the teens could manage before they turned to the sound of a three-ring signal being played from the innards of the strange table nearby.

That tintinnabulation heralded a new sound to ominously come groaning from up in the ceiling. With a focused blast of steam from a distant pressure valve, the people began to stir in their cradles with yawns, and, due to their unique orientation, stiff stretches. The mechanized arms shuddered with power and creaked into motion, slowly unfolding and swinging their lengths out and onto the floor in smooth, time-tested fashion.

As the cradles descended, May and Dewey could see that they were set in a staggered configuration, with one cradle from one side of the room, swinging down to rest beside one from the other, with enough space in between both of them for the occupants to dismount the cradles without bumping into one another.

A young woman limbered up next to her cradle and then walked over to May and Dewey once she saw them.

"Hey, Governor, who are these two?" she asked him. She nodded curtly to May. "She doesn't look like much of a showroom model to me." May huffed in response.

A boy, one of the two that hung previously, saw the wet spot on May's shoulder and turned to the other.

"Brother, you've got to learn to sleep with your mouth closed. You just tagged another one."

"Sorry, Stopgap."

A man, a head taller than Dewey, walked over and gave Dewey a friendly, yet stinging slap on the back, and asked him, "Are you the new maintenance units the captain requested?"

Again, "What?" was the best Dewey could manage, after getting feeling back to his dorsal region.

Governor sauntered over to his charges, waving his hands to quell the consternation and questions.

"I know what you're all thinking. And _yes_, they don't look like much, but I'm sure Requisitions had to send over what was available. After all, none of us are really showroom models anymore, are we? But we'll do alright."

"What's going on here?" May asked. All around her, she could hear music. Something that sounded like a driving shanty, or a drinking song, played in stirringly low keys.

Governor turned to her with a broad, yet sad grin, saying to her, "Why, you're our new replacements! Welcome to the Equipment Room."

The Three Laws Of Ebotics

(Original Song)

(Governor)

_I can see the new models are in this year,_

_It's a good thing you finally arrived,_

_Our last maintenance drones,_

_Were all seven year olds,_

_And only these two have survived  
><em>

_But before you're assigned your new function here,_

_And the programming you need to know,_

_The Powers That Be,_

_Have created for thee,_

_Three Laws Of Ebotics, that goes...  
><em>

Chorus:

(The Crew)

_A black man must not harm a white man,_

_A black man is pressed to obey,_

_If harm should advance, he's given the chance,_

_To bargain, or just run away  
><em>

(Female Crew Members to May)

_The Three Laws apply to us women, too,_

_But God help you, if you're on your back!  
><em>

(The Crew)

_The Three Laws of Ebotics-_

(May and Dewey)

_And what are Ebotics?  
><em>

(The Crew)

_Machines that just happen to be Black!  
><em>

(Smokestack)

_Now the ship that you're on is the pride of the fleet,_

_But that's due to the work of the crews,_

_Yet, no one would dream,_

_That we haggard machines,_

_Would be given the brunt of abuse_

(Lens)

_There are plenty of models to choose from,_

_Load lifters to cute worker bees,_

_God built us to last,_

_So we're all unsurpassed,_

_With out built-in lifetime guarantees  
><em>

Chorus:

(The Crew)

_Down here, we do things a bit differently,_

_Technology governs our lives,_

_Forget getting laid,_

_We all Plug and Play,_

_To say, "See ya", we say, "End of Line…"  
><em>

_At the end of the day, they just pack us away,_

_They load us in storage, on racks,  
><em>

_It's the life of a droid that we long to avoid,_

_To take our humanity back  
><em>

Bridge:

(Governor)

_Now, as you're all new here, we'll all get acquainted,_

_We're bees in a tight, little hive,_

_But watch out for Mary, the virus she carries,_

_Could wipe out a fella's hard drive!  
><em>

_As you see, things are very much different now,_

_We are no longer looked on as beasts,  
><em>

(Lens)

_It's ironic we're seen as machinery now,_

_We're no longer purchased, we're leased!  
><em>

(The Crew)

_You may not be the droids that we're looking for,_

_And no serial numbers' displayed,_

_But before you can sleep, you must both earn your keep,_

_And the Three Laws, they must be obeyed  
><em>

_If you're white and born here, you're American,_

_But for us, we're American made!  
><em>

_Curse this cruel and moronic,_

_Degrading, despotic,_

_Evil,_

_And blatantly unpatriotic,_

_Ghastly and fiendish,_

_And not for the squeamish,_

_Horrible, wicked,_

_And frankly, psychotic,_

_Laws to an early grave!  
><em>

May and Dewey stood there, absorbing the dire situation that befell these poor souls, and wondering what they might have to do as a consequence to survive their stowing away.

"Harsh," they said in dismayed unison.

With a booming blow of the ship's steam whistle, the new passengers lined the railings on the main deck, waving with all their enthusiasm, while family and friends on the dock below, reciprocated, cheering.

Deep in the Equipment Room, May heard the whistle call, as well. The sleeping cradles had long since retracted, giving May and clear view of the room once again.

Looking around, she saw the black crewers, the so-called Ebots, straightening their uniforms, preening themselves, or chatting amongst their fellows while preparing their minds for the coming work shift. All of which meant nothing to her at that moment. Her focus was on the portholes.

Eyeballing it from where she stood in the room, she guessed correctly that she just wasn't tall enough to see out of them, so she would have to improvise while time was available.

She skipped into the lounge, which was being occupied by Dewey and other workers who wanted to get off their feet. Scanning the dim room, she found an unused chair. Running over, she took it and rushed back into the sleeping area.

Already, May could hear the boiler room next door growl and could feel the ship shudder with motion through the floor. _Plymouth_ was about to cast off, and May wanted to see it happen, wanted to see what traveling in a ship looked like from the passenger's point of view.

She placed the seat underneath one of the windows and quickly stood on it. Then she swung open the porthole and breathed deep the briny, cleaner air. With the extra height afforded her now, May could clearly watch, and enjoy, her world slowly moving away.

With the moorings released and officers clad in gleaming white calling out orders to get under way, the _Plymouth's_ boilers roared hungrily for its coal, belching out its satisfaction through her colossal chimneys, and turning the sky above the ship dim with gray-black storm clouds of smoke.

Its huge side paddles ponderously began to push and churn into the river, slowly surging the vessel, like a great, living thing, out and away from the jutting pier. A long blast from her whistle claimed the right of the way. Cautiously, she glided her way through the shipping that crowds the harbor proper, drops her pilot and is soon on her way towards the colder, deeper waters of the Narragansett and beyond.

May marveled at the city's distance growing greater and greater with every passing minute of departure. As much as Quahog was familiar to her, watching it from the river on her way from it, gave the city a newness she never considered, like looking at an old picture from a new angle.

Every time she saw a landmark, she thought of everything she was leaving behind. Her home, her few school friends, the neighborhood with its wild and wooly, yet nautical charm, the steam buses that she stole rides from, and even the city's old New England charm and beauty that shone whenever the sun hit it just right, began to pull on her heart a little.

All of those things were the price she had to pay, not just to set out in search of her family, but also to set out onto the world. Fear of failure and anticipation to meet the challenge made her drunk with the heady brew of coming maturity.

And as the river became more vast, and the city's humble skyline became thinner and more indistinct, her stomach stirred, as she realized that she had passed the point of no-return, and that she began to feel something sloughing away from her, on the inside.

As the sun and the seagulls raced low across the horizon with the _Plymouth, _and her spirit flew to keep pace with them, something was dying inside of May Griffin, and with an adventurous grin, she knew exactly what it was. Her old self.

_She was leaving home.  
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Lois could feel the rough swaying of the train as her consciousness bubbled up from the depths of a light, ether-induced sleep.

As she slowly opened her eyes into an uncomprehending stare, she took a look at the car's interior. It was tastefully appointed with curtains, polished wood, brass and glass. Delicate gaslight lamps adorned the walls and the bench she sat upon was comfortably upholstered.

Up ahead, the forward section of the car was filled with seated passengers, hardly noticing Lois and contending to their own affairs. Midway and to the rear of the car, it was empty. Save for a lone woman reading her newspaper in the far rear corner of the other side of the car, she was alone.

All of which meant that she was where her family _wasn't._

Lois tensed up to make a fast getaway and make her way up and down the length of the train to find them, when she noticed the newest accoutrement to grace the car she was in, a pair of shackles connecting her to the windowed wall that the bench was connected to.

Experimentally, she pulled at the chains, and the plate that they ran through held. So, she tugged harder, the chains now making a racket against the wooden wall.

Lois began to scheme about trying to work the plate loose by its weakest anchoring point, the wood, when a tall, mustachioed man walked into the car from further in back of the train, and sat in the bench across from her with an easy grace.

"It'll take a long time to get through those chains, cher," The Hunter said. "Especially with all that noise you're makin'."

"Where is my family? Where are they?" Lois asked.

"Uppermost on your mind, I'd suspect."

"Just tell me where they are, already. I want to see them."

"Well, if you must know, I put them way back there in the prison car. They _would_ have been ridin' in the baggage car, but this isn't a regular outing for the likes of them, now is it?" The Hunter drawled.

Lois grabbed and tugged nervously at her bonds in an attempt to fight her anxiety. Then a nagging thought hit her.

"Wait. If they're there, then why am I _here_? I told you I wanted to be with Nate and my kids. Wherever they go, _I_ go."

The Hunter chuckled at that. "Cher, I have no doubt that you'd follow that mongrel family of yours to _Hell_ and back, but my client might not appreciate that, seeing that he's gone through all this trouble to bring you back, and all."

"Your _client_," Lois hissed at him. "My father. I couldn't give a damn what he'd appreciate or not."

"Ahh, but I do, cher. I told you before that your father is paying me a king's ransom to bring all of you home, and I aims to deliver on that contract. But I give you my word as a southern gentleman that neither you or those "people" back there will be harmed."

"Yeah, right."

"It's true, cher," he said genuinely. "Besides, how would it look if the son-in-law couldn't take care of the father-in-law's daughter, huh?"

Lois felt like she missed something important just then, and so asked, "What?"

The Hunter puffed up with no small amount of pride in his confession.

"That's right, cher! I'm-a fixin' to marry you when this job's done. With the money I'm gonna be paid with, I can retire in high style, and I want you there with me when I do, Lois."

Lois gave him an incredulous look that bordered on pity. "You do know I'm already married, don't you, you cornpone? What are you? Crazy?"

The Hunter ignored the insult breezily. "See? That's why I want to marry you, Lois. You got the kind of sauce I've been lookin' for all my life, girl. Besides, you know as well as I do that no court in the land's gonna honor that marriage. In fact, how you managed to stay out of jail by now is nothing short of mystifying."

She could see that there was no getting through to him, and ultimately, no need.

"I'm not marrying you," she said with quiet finality.

"Well, I don see why not," he said nonchalantly. "It's not like there isn't gonna be a vacancy when your family winds up as tree ornaments. So now would be a very good time to start thinking about tradin' up."

"It won't be with you, that's for _damn_ sure. Now let me see my family!"

The Hunter decided to counter her demand by looking intolerably smug instead. "I don't think so. You've made one mistake already, marrying that _thing_ back there, why go on makin' another one?"

Lois stayed silent, not answering, so as not to give her kidnapper the satisfaction of a response.

"Come with _me_, girl. I'll treat you right," the man pressed with a sly smile. "I know it sounds crazy, but I _know_ you. Ever since I saw you in that store, I knew what was wrong in your heart. You miss those sweet times when you had more money than you knew what to do with."

The worried flicker of a discovered secret flashed from Lois' eyes to him, and that sly smile grew slowly.

"Oh, yes, darlin'. Daddy told me _all_ about you. And with money, comes freedom. Everybody knows that, and I can give that to you, Lois. I can give it all to you. Just say yes, cher. Just say yes."

Lois never knew why she hesitated when she did. It should have been an automatic response, as immediate and easy as breathing, to just say no to all that he offered. But she found herself, for the briefest moment…_thinking_ about it.

And knowing that she spent that eternity even considering it brought a deeper shame to her than turning on her family outright. She was showing The Hunter something far more than her heart in her indecision; she was showing him her weakness. And more than anything in that train, _that _was what he truly focused on now.

"I can't," she said evenly, and then knew she failed, from her very choice of words. "I mean, I _won't_!"

The Hunter gave her a slightly crooked smile. The prey had bared her throat to him. All that was left to do now was wait for the perfect moment to strike home. _At home_.

"Alright," he said slowly, more than satisfied, psychologically. "We'll just table this discussion for another time, then?"

He stood up from the bench and stretched before saying to her, "I love your fire, cher, and I know you'll come around, because now I know that you care about something even more than me or your family. Your _image_. How other folks see you."

Lois again stiffened into silence. She gave too much away as it was.

"Right now, they see you as a criminal," he said matter-of-factly. "And if things were different, I might've come up here to drag _your_ high-tone ass down south, instead of your family. But it's not too late to save yourself."

He started to walk away towards the rear of the train, pulling the brim of his wide hat over his spectacled eyes for mysterious effect.

"For a criminal, you sure aren't thinking like one," he said before he left the car. "Cut 'em loose, ya hear?"

"Kiss my ass, ya hear?" Lois said under her breath when he was gone.

Lois turned her head to the sound of soft chuckling just to the rear of her. The woman who had been reading her paper had lowered it to laugh lightly, showing her high, feathered hat and pale, painted face.

"I don't think he heard you, dear, but well said," she said to her.

"Thanks."

"Lillian Daniels," the woman introduced herself. "Madam of the Hot Seat Hostelry of New York. I'd shake your hand but I don't know which one is shackled. Sorry. "

Lois was a little surprised to see another whorehouse madam in her life. Apart from that Glenda Quagmire back home, what were the odds? Still, courtesy was important, so she reciprocated the introduction.

"Oh, uh, that's okay. Uh, Lois Griffin, guilty of miscegenation, I guess."

Lillian flashed a sudden grin. "Ha! Hardly a crime in _my_ profession. I've seen as many freemen enjoy my girls, as, so-called respectable white men, but only white men could be so two-faced about it, and the more "respectable" the man, the more of a hypocrite he is."

Lillian struck Lois as a breath of fresh air after her dealings with The Hunter. She seemed strangely captivating, despite having known her all of a few minutes. Opinionated, cavalier and cocky, they were same qualities Lois gravitated towards, but never seen so openly displayed.

"I suppose so."

"Hey, I heard what was going on between you two. As a woman, I'm sorry you're in this mess. You took a big chance marrying a black man," Lillian told her. "One thing they can't say is that you married him for _money_."

That sparked sharp laughter from the madam that buoyed Lois' sprits so much that she belly-laughed along with her. It was so needed and it all true.

"Yeah, that's true," Lois managed to say, after wiping a tear away. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it turned out this way, but, y'know, it doesn't bother me all that much, as long as I can share the trouble with my family. I don't want my skin color to be the thing that protects me, while it punishes others."

"I totally agree, Lois, but your skin isn't the only factor that keeps you from the ones you love."

"Really? What else is there?"

"The fact that you're a woman. It scares the hell out of men. Especially those in power. They see us and they see another thing that's not like them that they can control. I've never seen such a god complex."

"What do you mean?"

"God is above everything, right? Well, insecure men with power _equate_ that power with _being_ God. They rule the world, not as wise, democratic stewards, but as paranoid, greedy, misogynistic xenophobes. Anything not _exactly_ like them, must be intimidated, subjugated and controlled. Think about it. Blacks, Indians, and other non-whites don't look or behave as they do, so, to them, they must be subjugated. Women, too."

"That's so true!" Lois said.

"We're all in the same boat," Lillian continued. "Captained by the same tyrants. Where to go, how to dress, who to marry, how to spend one's free time, how much to earn, and what to do. Even our bodies are subject only to _their_ scrutiny and decisions. We're as much slaves to our white masters as the blacks are, only our collars are prettier."

Lois idly thought about entertaining the notion of playing devil's advocate just for the sake of argument, but living a lifetime with her parents made everything Lillian said stand crystal clear in her mind, both in terms of her mother as well as her father.

"You're right. But what can you do?"

"You can be true to yourself. You must be brave for your family, Miss Griffin."

Lois hesitated to ask what came next, but then realized that Lillian would have probably insisted that she do so, anyway.

"Do people know…what it is you do?"

Lillian gave a bravely grim smile. "They do, indeed. And so-called respectable people do look down on me, but I'm a happy person, because I'm my own woman. I make more money than those hypocrites who turn their noses at me do. Hell, most of their husbands are the ones who pay my girls the most, so it doesn't bother me."

"I certainly was my own woman when I took a chance to be with Nate," Lois said to herself thoughtfully.

"I would think so."

"Then I have to stay true to that. God, I would have been so miserable if I didn't go with my heart on that. I would have been such a coward. I can't let my father, or this man he sent, scare me into regret. I did what I did, and I'm glad I did it." Lois said, more to reaffirm her own convictions, than as simple declaration.

"You're a good woman, Lois Griffin," Lillian said with sincerity. "Don't be _Man's_ Woman. Be your own."

Lois sighed. She didn't know who this woman was, but talking to her took such a huge weight off her mind. She hoped that if, by some miracle, things did somehow work out, she could count her as a freethinking, long-term friend.

"Thanks, Lillian. You really gave me a lot to think about."

"Don't mention it, Lois. You wanna go someplace and make out?"

"_What?"_

"What?"

One of the two doors that flanked the sides of the archway opened, and May stepped out of the women's bathroom in her new clothes, a blue and white housekeeper's uniform dress and matching cap.

As she tugged at the clothes lightly and self-consciously checked the fit once more, she heard the men's bathroom door squeak open on the other side, and saw Dewey walk out with some misgivings in his expression concerning the white tunic and trouser combo that comprised his laundry man's uniform.

Governor came over and looked Dewey over. "I'm sorry about the uniform, young fellow. Since neither of you were rated for ship's maintenance, the only other positions that were open were housekeeper and laundry. I hope you don't mind."

"It's alright, Governor," May told him. She took an idle glance over to the sleeping chamber, to the portholes, which were now dark with night. She couldn't imagine where on the seas they were now, but it was safe to say that Quahog was now a distant land, its safety and familiarity, an illusion to her now, trailing away from her, like thin smoke.

"Now," Governor said. "Because you're both new here, we won't put you to work until tomorrow, so you'll have time to learn about how we sleep here."

He led the assembly back to the sleeping area and then tottered further up the room, until he stopped in front of the singular table below the portholes.

He pulled out a thin chain from his tunic that held a key on its end, and inserted it into the keyhole that was built into the table.

With a quick turn, the table became animate with bulbs flashing colors and purposeful strobes.

"This is my station," he told May and Dewey. "From here, I control the whole room. I can assign workers their duties, operate the cradle racks and set waking times for everybody. Like so."

He flicked a large switch and then grabbed at an equally large lever and pulled. With their customary song of groaning, unfamiliar, steampunk technology, mechanical arms smoothly unfolded from their heights and laid their individual cradles to the iron floor.

May tiptoed over to the weird contraption. She wondered how anyone could possibly sleep comfortably in something that looked like a fancy version of a full-body torture device. She was already missing her bedroom.

"Why do you all sleep like this? Isn't it uncomfortable?" May asked the supervisor.

"Well, as the captain once told us, it was, and I quote, to maximize space in the ship so that the ship, as a whole, would operate more efficiently, unquote. And as for comfort, well, all I can say is, at least you won't fall out. It's like sleeping in the palm of a giant hand."

Governor then flicked a switch that was set apart from the others on the tabletop, and a hum could be heard nearby. The spindly, metal chair that was held against the wall between the two portholes, jerked into motion and opened before him like a supplicant.

With practiced, gingerly movements, Governor sat upon his command chair, as his charges began seating themselves into the forward positions of their cradles.

"Watch how they get in, you two," he instructed the teens, as he settled in more comfortably. "So you'll know how to, next time."

May turned to watch a co-worker as he reached over and grabbed the entry handles on either side of the framework, swung his leg over the cradle and stepped into the rigid stirrups. It looked not unlike getting on a bicycle.

Directly underneath him was the framework proper, a strategically bowed and padded structure that he laid his body into, settling his limbs into the padded limb molds, and his head and neck onto the equally padded and circular cranial support rig. From his body's orientation, he looked like he was lying face down on the brassy skeleton of a massage table.

It looked to May as though he was in danger of falling forward, but the cradle's huge, bulbous hinge at the base, connecting it to the pistoned arm, kept the bed at its customary fifteen-degree angle.

"Hop in," the man said, giving May a twitch of a glance, due to the limited mobility of the cranial rig. "It's not too bad."

May tentatively walked over to her rig and was about to make that awkward first attempt, when she spotted three teenaged girls, identical triplets, flanking Dewey while he made _his_ attempt.

"Do you need any help getting _comfortable_?" the first girl, One, volunteered.

"We know how to adjust it, so you can get into a better…_position_," drawled Two, the second.

"Sometimes the cradle gets a little loose, so, let us know, and we'll come right over and…tighten your nuts," Three, the third girl offered.

May stepped in between the three man-eaters before Dewey became their next midnight snack.

"Okay, girls. _I'll_ take it from here," she told them while waving them off like the annoyances they were. "Last thing he needs is for you three to start showing him the Singapore features."

With sucking teeth and grumbles, the three sisters departed, while May gave Dewey a lopsided smile.

"Aren't you a little too old to be tucked in?" she scoffed good-naturedly.

"Ah, cher," he said as he finally settled in correctly. "You can _never_ be too old for that. For example, my mama _always_ kissed me good night."

With his body resting forward, May gave her rebuttal to his flirt with a quick slap on his fanny that gave him a surprised jerk further forward.

"Sweet dreams," she said with a sly smile as she sashayed back to her cradle and clambered in.

Governor, having seen his fill, reached forward and turned a black knob, which in turn, flipped the digits of a crude timer until it read 07:30 AM.

"Powering down, people," he said to all of them. Then he gripped the big lever again and pushed it forward.

With an escaped _whoop! _May tensed when she felt the rush of motion lift her and her cradle with pistoned grace, up and up, until the cradle finally stopped just below the tangle of steam pipes, hoses, gears and exposed piston rods.

As the other cradles rose into their places up above, Governor flicked another switch and the few gas lamps that illuminated the Equipment Room flickered and died. One more switch thrown, and his chair rose away from his control table, its articulated arms bringing it back to rest once more against the porthole wall, this time in a reclined angle for him.

In the dark silence of the sleeping chamber and its storage racks, a thought hit May suddenly.

"Excuse me for asking, but, what do you do if you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night?" she asked openly.

"Well, that all depends," a nearby woman replied.

"On what?"

"On whether you need the funnel, or the hose," a man chimed in.

Unpleasant thoughts of uncomfortable and unsanitary devices entering accessible orifices gave May a mighty pause.

"You know what, guys? Nevermind."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter _Five-_

The _Plymouth _had made her way smoothly from the mouth of the Narragansett and beyond southern New England, and entered the vast, open blue of the Atlantic.

The nautical traffic was fair and evident even without a pair of spyglasses handy. Sailboats and pickets cruised along or crossed paths with the stately steamship, sometimes earning a toot of the ship's whistle in exchange for a courteous wave.

Traveling the safer, more distant lanes afforded to them, one could see either the tell-tale trails of smoke from other steamers and freighters from the far curve of Earth's horizon, or could see their sea worthy hulls outright, as they shined white against the morning sun, their decks and unused masts festooned proudly in the breeze with flags of semaphore and their countries of origin.

The _Plymouth_ was making good time on this part of her cruise. As one of the fastest ships of the fleet, she would carve a swift line through the foamy, Atlantic chop southward until she entered Long Island Sound and berthed on time, in the Hudson River. Until then, the customers on board, who paid between five and ten dollars a head, would live in the very lap of ocean-going luxury.

The sound of an incessant ringing woke May up from a dreamless sleep. She blinked her eyes and tried to stretch, as was her habit in the morning, and found that she couldn't do it easily. The awkwardness of the cradle reminded her of where she was.

Her yawns and groans soon joined the chorus of the others as her fellow co-workers stirred into consciousness and sleepily bade one another good morning. Then they all descended.

After May disengaged herself from her dubious bed, she slowly followed the rest of the morning crew out into the lounge. Finding a spot by one of the steel tables, she pulled up a chair. She didn't know what she was supposed to do next, but every time she saw someone doing something she didn't do herself in her own morning routine, she'd copy it as a way of learning the ropes.

When she saw Dewey lurch from the sleeping area like a zombie, she called him over to where she sat and placed a chair for him to flop down upon.

"I've slept in the strangest places," Dewey groaned in his hands. "Under coaches, under bridges, even under fire, but that rattrap takes the cake."

May was intrigued suddenly by his admission of sleeping "under fire," and was about to ask how he came to be in such a predicament, when she saw Governor finally leave the chamber and bid everyone good morning.

He walked to a dim corner of the lounge, where a long length of chain extended from the dark ceiling to the floor.

Turning his head to all in the room, he asked, "Is everybody ready to power up?"

When everyone expressed their readiness, Governor pulled down on the chain three times and then hurried over to his seat.

"What's goin' on?" Dewey asked May while he rubbed the sleep from his red eyes.

"I don't know," May said as a hum. Then her eyes saw movement from above the tables. Snaking down from unseen ports high in the dark ceiling, May could see…tubes.

About twenty thin, rubbery tubes came down over the seated occupants, who all had a look of anticipation in their sleepy eyes.

A tube crept down in front of May's pensive face.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" she asked a co-worker from across the table from her, who turned out to be the old housekeeper, Lens.

"Feeding tube. Pop it in your mouth," the woman instructed, placing the end of her tube into her mouth. Then she reached up and pinched a portion of the tube in her fingers, adding, "I think it'll be bacon and eggs, this time. Have to be fast, or it'll get messy."

"What'll get mess-" May started to ask, forgetting to follow Lens' lead. A warm blast of chunky, semi-solid mass splattered across May's face, and she frantically put the tube into her mouth.

Sure enough, crumbled bits of bacon mixed with mashed scrambled eggs were passed through a tube of compressed air for her.

It was admittedly odd for her to enjoy her repast in such a coldly efficient and impersonal manner, but she decided to make the most of it. At least the problem of getting anything to eat on the trip was solved. She cocked the feeding tube to one side of her mouth to continue eating, and simply rested her head on the palm of her hand.

For the next few minutes everyone grazed on the instant breakfast like cows in a pen, and in fact, May could swear that, ever now and then, she did hear the occasional moo. But eventually, the meal was over, and the tubes began retracting without warning back into the darkness above.

"So, how was your first meal in a tube?" Lens asked May as they all gradually stood up from their table.

"Not too bad," May said. "But I have this strange feeling, like I just got back from a prom, or something."

"It'll pass," Lens told her. "Now, since you've been assigned as a housekeeper, you'll be working under me and another housekeeper named Buffer, for a while. I'll have you with me on my rounds."

"Okay, Miss Lens."

The older woman clucked a laugh. "Just Lens, honey."

Dewey, who had been sitting next to May during breakfast, had left for a moment and was now returning from where a small clutch of girls, the very three who were jockeying for him last night before May intervened, had been standing.

"Hey, cher. Those girls just called me over and told me that we had to be given new names while we're here."

May gave him a quizzical look. "What for? My _name_ is May Griffin."

"Oh, I know, honey," Lens explained. "But Governor's terrible with names, so while you and your friend are here, you'll have to have new names."

May took a moment to ponder. "Hmm, well, Mu'ad Dib is out. I don't know. What did the girls call you, Dewey?"

"Ball Bearing! Not bad, huh, cher?"

"Do tell." May said in a jealous deadpan as she began envisioning imaginative paths towards watery graves for those troublesome girls. "And what do they call _me_?"

"Something strange, cher. What does Fifth Wheel mean?"

'_Why am I not surprised,' _she thought as she crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at the sisters in annoyance. "Cute."

May turned from Dewey and Lens to see the rest of the workers beginning to assemble near Governor, who was standing by the open front hatch. Lens left the two teens and went forward to meet with the engineer, Smokestack.

"Smokestack, Lens," Governor called out in a truncated roll call. "Axle, Lamp Light, Trip Hammer, Ball Bearing, Fifth Wheel, Mary. Ebots, let's roll out!"

As Governor left the Equipment Room, May, Dewey and the rest of his charges surged out behind him in a wave of accustomed purpose, following him down the hallway, up the staircase around the corner, and into the busy day.

The _Plymouth's _main deck was filling with posh passengers taking in the late morning sea air and passing along the latest talk and gossip. Among their number strolled the _Plymouth's_ captain, his uniform as gleaming as the clouds that cruised over the Atlantic expanse.

Summoning a fair amount of pluck and encouragement from her equally well-off and non-too-worldly compatriots, a brunette woman sidled up to him and asked with a mock-conspiratorial tone and a nervous giggle, "Captain, do forgive me, but I've been meaning to ask you, do you think we'll ever run into any beastly pirates on this voyage?"

The captain puffed his chest slightly, absently stroked his handlebar moustache, and took the fluff-brained admiration in stride. It happened all the time, on every trip. Rich simps looking for something to tell their friends on the next junket or party they'd throw. Well, he'd play along. At least the girls who swooned for the latest tales of nautical adventure were easy on the eyes.

"I wouldn't worry, miss," he sniffed with practiced bravado. "The _Plymouth_ is the fastest in her fleet. No pirate ship can catch her off-guard. You can sleep well knowing _I'm_ on duty."

"Well, I wasn't too worry about sleeping," she managed to flirt. "But I'm glad you'll be there to make sure nothing bad will happen to me…when I _do_ climb into bed."

'_Hook, line, and sinker,' _he thought. _'Time to reel 'er in.'_

"I'll be having dinner at the Captain's Table with some of the passengers tonight. I was wondering if you'd like to join me. That way I can fill you in."

The woman covered her mouth, playing up the gesture of being both scandalized and playing coy. "Captain!"

The captain laughed off the obviously faux act coolly. "Ha, ha! I meant that I'll fill you in…_with more of my exciting stories of the sea, of course._"

As he continued his walk and inspection of the people and the ship, his new entourage stayed close to him. With the captain and his throng moving on, other passengers remained, enjoying the company of others, or the visual adventure of the Atlantic Ocean.

A thin man in a brown suit leaned on the railing and looked out onto the robin's egg blue of the sea. He sat up a bit when the bulge in his jacket began to become noticeable.

Another man, passing by, was noticed by Brown Suit, so he gave him a disarming smile and said, "Can't wait for the fireworks."

The passer-by looked confused and asked, "There's going be a fireworks show on board?"

"The best around," said Brown Suit.

Passer-by nodded his acceptance of the fact and jovially took his leave; leaving Brown Suit to go back to his solitary, and intense, watch of the seas.

May pushed the humble metal cart down the mostly empty hall. Patrons were most likely still asleep in their cabins, so the first few hours of her job would probably be easy ones, with fewer rooms to clean.

She rolled the cart up to the first door and gave it a knock.

"Housekeeping," she sing-sang.

"Come in," the strangely hollow voice bade her.

Opening the door, May walked in, leaving the cart by the threshold. Taking the measure of the room, she saw nothing out of place or used, as though no one had been assigned to it yet.

The bed was immaculate and even the pillows weren't out of place, but May noticed the oddest thing propped up on one of the pillows. A doll.

It was small, it was clad in black, and it had, in May's estimation, the weirdest face for a doll. A chalk-white visage crowned with a diminishing mane of black hair. Crimson pinstripes spiraled as a blush on its cheeks, and matched the color of its painted lips.

But what unnerved her most were the eyes, staring out of the black pits of its eyeholes, burning red, like embers.

That was all she saw as far as occupancy was concerned. Yet, she heard a man's voice tell her to come in.

'_Ah," _she thought. _'The doll. The hidden speaker.'_

"I guess you must be one of those ventriloquism acts I've been hearing about," she spoke up in conversation. "I didn't know the ship had a vaudeville show."

Silence was the only reply. She shrugged and became mindful of the time. Back to work.

She got as far as the dresser near the doorway before she barely felt the lightweight snag of a tripwire against the toes of her shoe.

From the corner of her eye came strange movements from the wall opposite her. She had time to dodge it all just once.

Spears, axes, and knives, propelled by some hidden mechanism, sprang from the far wall. May twisted her body in a panicked dance for survival, as weapon after weapon buried itself in the wall where a limb had only _just_ been.

Panting hard, her body flush with adrenaline, May thought the worst was over, until she craned her head away, at the very last second, from the lethal, short-range blast of a hidden shotgun.

"I'll come back later," she shakily announced, thanking God for her frantic reflexes.

May went to another door, hoping for a much saner encounter, and knocked softly. The knocking pushed the already unlocked door open.

"Housekeeping," May said as she peered inside. Then she stopped in her tracks because she found herself looking into the depths of an unexpected abattoir.

Rich, arterial, human blood covered the walls and furniture. Judging from the fact that the blood hadn't browned yet, it meant that whatever horrors had happened here were done rather recently.

On the disheveled bed was the wrecked, shirtless corpse of a man, sporting the expression on his rigor-frozen face that he died in utter surprise.

Digging into the small of his back, incredibly, sat a Predator, who turned his ponderous, armored head to regard May's entrance with as much alarm as watching a fly buzzing in her place.

With a practiced yank, the alien hunter cleanly pulled the man's bloody spinal cord and skull free from the body, filling the air with a wet, rending sound and painting the Predator's armor and a nearby wall with gore and cerebrospinal fluid.

The Predator simply croaked, amidst the clicks of his native language, the word, "Housekeeping."

May, looking on with a mask of shock, said nothing, and backed out as quietly and as non-threateningly as she could.

She pushed her cart up to the next door and raised her fist to knock, wondering if this was actually the norm, and if so, how did Lens and the other housekeepers deal with it.

Before her hand touched the door, however, it opened quietly on its own accord, allowing a heavy, pink fog to flow out from the room and into the hall.

From where she stood, May's body was bathed in the pink, ethereal light of the cabin's interior, but she couldn't move. She wasn't sure how to proceed based on the distant, crystalline pyramid and the otherworldly vista she was seeing, or the unseen, celestial chorale she was hearing.

Without fanfare, an unseen force abruptly snatched her up like a toy and drew her into the room; the door slamming shut a second later.

If there was any other soul in the hallway witnessing May's sudden introduction into the mysterious cabin, he or she might have heard an ancient, raspy voice pose the following question to her.

"_Are you a god?"_

"Uh, no, I'm your housekeeper."

May's body flew through the closed door with such force that it shattered outward. She slammed into her cart, driving it to its side, allowing May to bounce off of _it_ and then roll, head over heels, into the unyielding door of a cabin on the other side of the hall.

She dazedly blinked back the spots from her eyes and slowly sat up. Her clothes were singed from a single blast of eldritch energy, and thatched with wooden fragments of door, which were held in place by a generous coating of sticky ectoplasm.

"Great," she groused woozily. "I just _got_ this uniform."

Then she keeled over and blacked out.

The sunset on the horizon cast a subtle glow of orange over the whole of the ocean and everything that sailed its surface, and a good eye could pick out the first faint stars in the dusky sky as the _Plymouth _continued her course due south to New York.

Her shift over, May walked through the corridors of the lower decks, looking for the laundry room and trying to remember the directions she was given to get there.

Eventually she came to a white door with "Laundry Room" stenciled on its surface. A laundress exited and May managed to ask her if Dewey was there before the woman disappeared down the hall.

"Hold on," she said. She leaned back into the room and asked loudly, "Is Dewey in here? What?" She turned back to May and asked her, "What's his machine name?"

"Oh, this is ridiculous," May grumbled as she remembered what the girls called him.

"Ball Bearing," she answered with an impatient sigh and an air of distaste.

"Ball Bearing!" the woman called out into the room.

"Yeah?" Dewey's voice came from deep within.

"Someone wants to see you."

Dewey's tired eyes lit upon seeing May by the doorway. He quickly untied his apron and threw in a corner and with an indifferent toss of his uniform's hat; he stepped out of the room.

"You're just in time," Dewey said. "My shift just ended, and not a moment too soon. You should've seen the drawers of this one guy from Room 34. It looked like he sat on a chocolate cake."

May didn't know whether to gag or laugh, but she opted to laugh considering the day she had.

"Well, now that we're both free, let's see if we can go up to the main deck," May suggested. "There might not be a lot of people there, so we can check out the ocean before it gets too dark."

Dewey gave a stretch, saying, "Sounds like a plan."

They strolled a few yards down the hall, on their way to one of the ornate stairways that would take them to the main deck, when they both noticed Lens coming down the hall in the opposite direction.

It wasn't until she was close enough, that the teens could see that she soaking wet from top to bottom, and looking as crotchety as an unwillingly drenched human could express.

"Lens! What happened?" May asked.

"A prank," Lens sputtered as her shoes squelched in their own puddles. " I was fixin' to clean that stateroom that's being used by that minstrel group as their dressing room. But they played a practical joke on me as soon as I got in the room."

Dewey was about to surmise what was played on her, when a man with a remarkably uncanny resemblance to Don Adams, approached.

"Ah, yes! The old Water Bucket Over The Door Trick," he answered as he continued to walk by.

"Exactly," Dewey concurred. "But are you alright? You want us to get you some towels or something?"

Lens wrung some water from one of her sleeves. "No, child, that's alright. I'm going downstairs to the Equipment Room to change clothes."

"Are you sure?" May pressed. "Can we, at least, walk you there?"

Lens raised a hand to cease May and Dewey's fretting. "It'll take more than some man-children to get the best of me. But I see that look in your eye and I want you two to remember something. You're not part of the real crew. No one knows you're stowaways, so don't go getting into trouble trying to pay those men back."

The maternal power of Lens made May and Dewey feel far younger than their age. Detecting the nascent desire for vengeance on behalf of one of their benefactors was child's play to her. As one, the teens hung their collective heads low in compliance.

"Yes, ma'am," they mumbled.

"Just go on doing what you were going to do and don't worry about me or the others," the old woman continued. "That way, you'll be on your way to New York all the quicker. Now, I better go."

She held her head up with as much dignity as she could muster and resumed her march down the hall, leaving squelching footprints in her wake on the carpet.

There was no sense in May's mind to fight Lens on the subject. This ship was the housekeeper's world and she knew its politics better than anyone there. The last thing they needed to do was to, figuratively, rock the boat.

"She reminds me of my mama," Dewey said, with what May could only guess, was a distant sadness.

May said nothing, but looked at Dewey as though it were her first time again.

_Who was he? What was _his_ story? _

There would be time to know soon enough, and there was no sense in wasting time getting there.

"Come on," she prompted softly, "Let's go."

She gently held Dewey's hand and drew him along as he kept watching Lens walk away. Eventually, he stopped watching, and walked alongside May without resistance.

Of the many professional slave catchers that populated the country, three of their number, Joe, Garry and Murray, were unique in that they were _almost_ morons.

Known collectively, and with some humor, as The Three Stupids, they were reputed huntsman, only because they just managed to eek out a living, in spite of their group incompetence.

Whether by sheer luck or even more determination, the trio made their fortune as manhunters on the fringes of the field, reluctantly yielding the floor to better bounty men and their bigger scores.

However, hard work, eventually, paid off, no matter how morally suspect, and they were able to scrap together enough funds for a fairly decent vacation cruise, which they currently were enjoying up on the main deck.

"It was a good idea taking this vacation, Joe," the curly haired Garry said while he took his ease by the railing.

"You said it, Spinach Chin," Joe agreed gruffly. "That Fugitive Slave Act made things a little dicey for us, competition-wise, but we showed those amateurs what a difference a professional makes."

He held his lined face to the wind as it ruffled his bowl haircut.

"But don't forget," he warned. "Just because we're on top, doesn't mean we have ta go soft. We need ta keep practicing ta stay in tip-top shape."

That confused Gary somewhat. "But, Joe. There're no escaped slaves on this ship."

Joe gave him a glare of annoyance. "I know that, ya porcupine! We'll just find a couple of black crew men to chase around as practice, that's all. All we have to do is find them."

A few feet away, the last third of the brain trust was listening to Joe's conversation, leaning a bit too far over the railing, and was in danger of falling overboard, when he happened to glance off to the side.

There, standing together on deck, just rear of the ship, were two blacks like Joe wanted. A male and a female, seemingly alone amongst the other patrons, who warily kept to themselves.

Righting himself with a speed that belied his bulk, Murray tottered over to his two comrades-in-arms.

"Hey, Joe! Hey, Joe!"

"Whadya want, Chowder Head?"

Murray pointed wildly in the blacks' general direction while explaining.

"Ya said ya wanted some blacks ta play around with, didn't ya?"

"Yeah, so?"

Murray finally stopped gesticulating and stood with a smug grin on his plump face as he nodded over to where May and Dewey were standing, and said, "How's that?"

Joe and Garry looked over to the duo's direction, with Joe vainly attempting to look analytical, trying to size them up.

With grudging acceptance, he told Murray, "Not bad, Lamebrain. You're _almost_ retarded."

Taking that as high praise, Murray said, "Thanks! I woik hard at it."

Joe gathered the others into a quick huddle.

"Okay, fellas. We rush 'em both when I give the signal," he instructed.

"What's the signal?" Garry asked.

"Now."

Murray, whose mind was known to wander at the drop of a hat, didn't pay attention to the instruction and asked, "_What's_ now?"

"The signal," Joe said. "'Now' is the signal."

"No, Joe," Murray said, shaking his head pedantically. "Now is the winter of our discontent. Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!" He immediately earned a slap on the nose for his troubles.

With the dispensation of punishment done, Joe stood, affected a mock-heroic stance while he pointed in the sky, and said, "To the hunt!"

Garry and Murray matched Joe's stance, and all three chanted in mental preparation, "To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt!"

The two stowaways marveled at the vista of the darkening seas. Their bodies and minds were gradually unwinding to the sight of seagulls hovering opportunistically about the vessel, and the hypnotic sounds of the ship's huge side paddles as they broke water and churned the ocean into foamy propulsion.

The relaxing setting must have lowered Dewey's inhibitions, as well, because he found himself putting an arm around May's shoulder before he became fully conscious of the move.

May had quietly stiffened in surprise of the move, and he felt it through his offered arm.

"Uh, it was starting to get a little nippy," he tried nonchalantly to explain. "I didn't want you to catch cold, that's all." He felt like a damned fool for being so forward with her.

May looked up at him with a slightly coy smile, and instead, snuggled up against him.

Now the scene was complete for the both of them. The sea, the sunset, the sound of the waves, and each other. Blissful perfection.

The passengers, for the most part, ignored the strangely acting trio as they _laughingly_ stalked their prey down the deck.

Joe, with handled net in hand, took point in the maneuver, covering large amounts of distance by cartoonishly stretching his legs out to an unnatural degree in an exaggerated tiptoe.

Garry chose to accompany Joe, unobtrusively, on his belly, literally slithering beside him like a thin, balding, curly-haired serpent.

Curly was slowly bringing up the rear, floating along like a human balloon, three feet off the deck, and alternating between doing exaggerated versions of both the breast stroke and the dog paddle.

No matter how patently ridiculous the three looked as they approached…they still approached.

May suddenly tensed again, feeling a strange chill run through her, and for a second she wondered if Dewey was actually telling the truth about the air being too cool.

After a moment's analysis, she successfully put her finger on the feeling.

"Dewey," she asked calmly as she took a slow, cautious glance up the deck. "Did you ever have the feeling you were being watched?"

Dewey followed her lead, moving only his eyes in the direction of the movement on the deck.

"We're black, cher." Dewey scoffed. "When _haven't_ we ever felt like that? On three. One."

"Two," May counted as the three figures moved into range.

"Three!"

Both teens leapt away to the side and sprinted down a staircase to the lower decks, as The Three Stupids, planning a surprise dog pile, leapt, themselves, and crashed in a painful, embarrassed heap against the railing.

In an unoccupied stateroom, May sat on the bed, panting from the close call and staring at the door she locked. Her mind kept running every recent memory back and forth, trying to find the fateful moment when she and Dewey apparently slipped up and had their covers blown.

Dewey, for his part, was doing the same as he sat on a chair in the corner of the room. Although he never did laundry before, he was a quick enough study that no one complained much about his performance in the laundry room today, so that wasn't the reason.

And even though he wanted to get back at the minstrels for what they did to Lens, he obeyed and had not gotten involved, so _that_ wasn't it.

So then why were they being pursued all of the sudden?

"Who the hell were those guys?" May asked irritably, while Dewey leaned back in his chair.

"I don't know, cher," he sighed. "Slave catchers, maybe. That damn Fugitive Slave Act'll turn anybody into a wanna-be bounty hunter. Can't trust anybody, hardly, when that happens. We best keep on our toes from here on out."

"Amen to that."

"And that also means we can't go back to the Equipment Room, either," he told her.

May was hit by the news. She was just getting to know everybody in there, and good and varied company was a necessity on long trips.

"How come?"

"If somebody's lookin' for us, then we can't lead them back to the others, cher. They did enough for us, and we'd be pretty poor guests to bring the law down on 'em for that."

"Yeah, you're right. But what do we do now?"

"Well, we can't stay here, and it's a good bet they got somebody guardin' the hold. We need to find a place to hide until New York, and food to last us until then."

Dewey then cocked his head to the side in thought, and then said, "And I think I might have an idea about that."

"I'm all ears."

"Well," he said. "The first thing we need to do is..."

The stateroom door opened slowly and the two of them eased their heads out to check the hallway. It was empty and they were satisfied.

Together, the two closed the door and quickly tiptoed away, heading towards the Laundry Room to get what they needed to make this desperate trick work. It would have been bittersweet to return to the Equipment Room and tell everybody there why they couldn't see them again, but the fewer who knew what was happening, the better.

As they left, the portly Margaret Dumont appeared and used her key to open the stateroom door.

Groucho Marx and his brothers, Chico and Harpo, along with everyone else involved in the classic gag from A Night At The Opera, upon the door's opening, immediately knocked her down.

The ship's kitchens were in a constant state of hustle. The head chef looked at Dewey, wearing a gold Room Service Attendant's uniform, and May, in her blue and white housekeeper's uniform, quizzically.

"I haven't seen you two before," the chef said warily. If Dewey was worried, he didn't show it.

"Just been transferred. Latest models," Dewey said smoothly. "Believe it, or not, we can do more than one thing at a time. The scientists in _Europe_ call it _multitasking._"

May watched in silent awe as he gave his best disarming smile and pitched the two of them to the man as though they were the latest marvel at a world's fair.

"The agency's hoping to replace all the older Ebots on board with newer models like us, but why listen to _me_ talk, when you can see us in action. We'll deliver your food and clean rooms twenty-five percent faster than standard models, and since we're both demos, if you allow us to show you our capabilities, we'll make sure that the agency will put in a good word to the captain about _you_, sir."

The chef knew he was taking a huge chance in not keeping up with his work in the kitchen to evaluate the worth, if not the veracity, of these two. But, being overworked and hoping the captain's recommendation could sweeten his resume, and therefore, land him a better culinary job elsewhere, he nodded in rushed approval.

"Okay, okay. Take these orders and get them to their rooms and then come back for another pick-up," the chef told him.

May and Dewey placed the waiting, covered platters on the cart assigned to them and turned to leave the kitchen.

They had just made it to the threshold, when the head chef called after them to stop. The duo obeyed, but fought the look of worry that tried to crawl across their faces.

They turned to face the chef as he approached them, but the cook's expression turned out to be one of strangely genuine curiosity.

"I was wondering. How come _she_ doesn't say anything?" he asked, keeping a steady eye on her.

Dewey glanced nervously at her. He couldn't understand, for the life of him, why the chef was so concerned that _May_ didn't say anything.

Maybe he put too much emphasis on having the chef pay attention to _him._ Fear was making him panic that he didn't think far enough ahead to counter questions like those.

May, feeling all eyes on her, fell deep in thought for a moment.

Then a spark of inspiration twinkled in her eyes. She gave the chef her most innocent smile…and whistled up and down while she moved her arms in the gestures of having a conversation with him.

"What's all that about?" the chef asked Dewey, not knowing what to make of this odd, musical event.

Dewey wished he could kiss her right then and there, but he valiantly suppressed a smile at May's quick thinking, and followed her lead, saying, "Ah! She says it's a new function, sir. Instead of having the women talk, they have to communicate by whistling. I'm one of the few who can understand, but we _must_ get this food to the waiting passengers, sir."

The notion of displeasing the passengers, and thus, the captain, brought the chef back down to earth quickly.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, you two, get moving," he said, while waving them off dismissively.

"Yes, sir," Dewey said, then turned to May and said to her with a smile, "Come along, Audrey."

As the two stowaways walked calmly out the door, May gave a happy little chirp in parting.

The cart squeaked softly with its unaccustomed load of two stolen blankets and pillows, six platters of food, a pail, and a jug of fresh water from the kitchen, as Dewey pushed it all down the carpeted hall and May walked slightly ahead, to give early warning.

This caper had both teens riding an adrenaline high, and their senses were alert and alive since they ditched their uniforms.

"You looked like a brass handle in that suit," May chuckled at him.

"Well, aren't you just precious?" Dewey retorted, good-naturedly. "Still, I have to admit, you were quite the actress back there. Thanks for savin' my bacon."

"Thank _you_," she beamed. "You were pretty terrific, yourself. So, do you think we have enough stuff to live off of until we reach New York?"

"I hope so, cher, 'cause it won't take 'em long to find out we weren't who we said we were, and then all hell's gonna break loose."

A depressing thought to be sure, May knew. Everything would ride on timing, to hide for as long as possible, and to get off as soon as the ship was docked, and not a moment sooner.

"Hopefully, it won't come to that," she said, trying to be optimistic.

Up ahead, May, and then Dewey, saw a man coming from an intersection further up the hall and approach a stateroom in the middle of the corridor.

He wore a black suit with large, white trim everywhere, black shoes that seemed a bit too large for him, and a bow tie that was as comical as it was big. He looked like a walking vaudeville act.

He knocked on the door and it opened for him a moment later.

As May and Dewey were about to pass by that particular cabin, they both took a casual look at the white sign that hung on its door and stopped.

The sign said, in simple print, "The Ministers of Minstrel's Dressing Room. Please knock."

"That's them!" May whispered aloud. "It has to be."

"It's a good bet, and I like a little payback as much as the next one, but I don't think we have the time for it, cher."

"I guess so," May conceded, crestfallen. "Okay, let's go."

The sounds of men talking around the corner up ahead, made them tense. The teens left the cart by the stateroom and quietly snuck across the other side of the hall. Then they came up to the corner and peered slowly around it.

The sight was heartbreaking. Although the men's backs were to May and Dewey while they had their animated conversation, they could recognize The Three Stupids by now.

The slave catchers were arguing halfway down the other hall, and there was every chance that they could go up that hall, turn the corner, and run into the two stowaways and their cumbersome cart.

The duo ducked back into their corridor, fretting all the way back to their cart on what to do.

The sound of hard laughing through the stateroom door gave them both a curious pause and they gently leaned their heads against the door to listen in.

"_She never knew what hit her."_

"_That trick never gets old." _

"_I think I'm in love with you."_

The two teens had heard enough.

"You thinking what I'm thinking, cher?" Dewey asked with a diabolical gleam in his eye.

May nodded with a wicked grin. "Time for some mischief."

After a quick huddle, they brought the cart back up the hall from where they came, parked it around a corner, and came back.

May then took a marker that she had brought from the cart, flipped the sign over so it showed a blank back, and then began to write on it.

Once she was done, she knocked on the door and said in a good imitation of a woman of authority, "Five minutes 'til showtime, gentlemen!"

As they had hoped, the so-called entertainers were taken aback by the sudden change in time. One of the minstrels called out through the door, "Already? O-Okay, let us put on our make-up and we'll be right out!"

"Thank you!" she sing-sang in reply.

She ran back to where the cart was left behind, to hide, while Dewey took a deep breath and then walked down the hall until he reached the intersection.

He was grateful that they hadn't left the area yet, upon seeing the bumbling bounty men. He coughed loud enough to get their collective attention, causing them to turn and see him standing in the middle of the intersection.

"Excuse me," he said with smooth affectation. "Could I trouble you for a white woman?"

Dewey tore back up the hall, inspired by the sounds of shoes stomping after him, and thoughts of those same shoes stomping _on _him.

He reached May and the cart around the corner just seconds before The Three Stupids made it to the intersection and looked up the now deserted hall.

They went door to door, turning locked doorknobs to open and hunt down the offender, but to no avail.

Then Garry saw something that made him signal the others to join him. The three irate men gathered in front of a stateroom door that had a sign that said proudly, "Escaped slaves! Here!"

With a combined kick from the three of them, they violently forced the door open.

The Three Stupids rushed into the room with purpose, brandishing axe handles, and then began to grin malevolently upon seeing five frightened men in blackface, running and huddling in a corner.

"Gentlemen," Joe said with a sneer. "Fuck 'em up."

Even with the door closed, May and Dewey could still hear, from their vantage point, the terrible screams and merciless impact from the axe handles.

"Well, now. Maybe they'll have some _black eyes _to go with their blackface," said May, matter-of-factly, as they guided the cart down the hall and resumed their search for a place to hide until the ship's destination.

May had to admit that it would have probably been the last place anyone would have thought to look, as she finished her dinner.

As wide and beautiful as the sky was during the day, the jeweled night sky that curved over Dewey, herself, and the dark, moon-kissed ocean, was just as mysterious and as majestic.

And just as romantic, May thought, as she wondered why they had to hide on the very roof of the steamship via a maintainence stairway they found way aft of the forward wheelhouse.

"You have to admit, cher," Dewey said, lying back on his blanket, amidst the covered platters they brought up, to stargaze after a full meal. "You can't beat the view."

"That's true," she said, lounging on her own blanket and looking back at the beautiful setting before them.

Dewey turned on his side to look at the beautiful setting before _him_. With the stars as a backdrop against her, May looked as though she belonged with them.

"We work pretty good together, too, y'know?"

May smiled. "We do."

"When we get to New York, we'll have to get something fast to go overland if we want to catch up to The Hunter, like a coach."

May looked over to Dewey with concern. "Do we have that kind of money for one?"

Dewey sat up, his eyes shining with a determination that May could see was bordering on the reckless. "If we don't, we might have to steal some silverware and pawn it for money, or maybe steal a horse. I'm good with them. Or _something_. We can't quit now. Anything and everything, cher. Isn't your family _worth_ that?"

May gently put her hand on Dewey's shoulder to calm him, maybe even save him from himself.

"Dewey," she said softly. "I didn't say that we should quit. Of course, they're worth it to me. I just…wanted to know what we might have to do for us to get to them."

"I-I'm sorry, cher." Dewey said, silently cursing himself for letting his guilt take control of him. For trying to make her more like _him_. "That's…just what I'd do for my mama. I know you'd do the same."

Even in the night, May could see the pain in his eyes.

"Did something happen to your mother, Dewey?"

He wished he didn't see the compassion in her eyes. He wished he didn't feel his defenses beginning to crumble before her. She was the enigma. How could he feel both vulnerable and strengthened just by being by her side?

"No," he told her. "But for the longest time, I thought I was gonna lose her."

She couldn't figure out what was wrong with him. What pain was he hiding that was killing him slowly from within? Despite her wanting to know more _and_ be there for him, she realized that being there was enough, and she wouldn't pry.

May worked up a cheerful smile and said, "Well, Lord willin', I'm not gonna lose my folks. If I didn't say it enough before, Dewey, I want to say again. Thank you for helping me find them. And thank you for bringing me out here. I mean, look at me! I'm on a boat going down to New York, of all places. And when we get off, who knows what's next? That's never _happened_ to me before. That one of a _hundred _things that's never happened to me before."

May stopped talking when Dewey gently cupped her surprised face in his hands, and said to her, "Then let's make this the second."

And then he kissed her.

She had never been kissed before, not like this. The small moans that escaped her were not her own, she vaguely knew. It was her trembling heart speaking through her, in a language Dewey was all too receptive to, with every amorous push his lips gave hers.

She was no longer in control, and she wanted more and more to lose herself. She felt like she would melt away into air, into starlight.

But the contact gently broke too soon, and she came back down to earth, panting softly. She could contribute her light-headedness to an over-abundance of love, or a lack of oxygen, she didn't care which.

Everything she saw about him would change from then on.

Everything she saw about _the world _would change from then on.

She saw a shooting star passed over them, heading for the horizon, towards its destiny. Just as May felt they were.

They said nothing. They simply held each other against the cool Atlantic air and watched the silent drama of the heavens play out for their wonder until they finally slept in each other's arms.

Unbeknownst to them, or to any other souls on board the _Plymouth_, a man in a brown suit was standing on the main deck aft of the ship, watching his shooting star arc away into the night.

Satisfied, he tucked the flare gun back into his jacket, and quietly walked away.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter _Six-_

The Hunter left the restroom trailing toilet paper from the heel of his otherwise well-tailored boot.

He strolled past car after car, heading for the one car that mattered most to him at that moment, the prison car furthest to the rear of the train.

He didn't need to worry about Lois somehow slipping away while he was there. She was secure enough, and the story he told everyone on board, of her being a regular Lizzie Borden, would help keep everyone's eyes on her for the duration of the trip.

He slid the reinforced door open and took in all that he surveyed.

In a large cage by the corner of the car, Nate Griffin watched his captor saunter in, with anger in his eyes. Beside him, his sons stood by, not sure how to proceed, but ready to assist their father in an instant's command.

"Where's Lois, you rotten bastard!" Nate yelled from across the car.

The Hunter sighed and walked, almost bored, over to them. It was always the same with these captures. Sturm and Drang that never accomplished anything, and in the end, he got paid, and they were never seen again.

But, since he was going to retire soon on this one bounty, he figured he'd be lenient and give them something in return.

He stopped a prudent distance from the cage and, as if spouting a speech he long since never care for, or truly believed in, he gave a deadpan, non-stop recitation of the following.

"Okay, here's the long and the short of it. You and your sons will hang when all is said and done, and Lois will join you, unless you prove to her how much you love her by letting her go back to her father. If you do this, then I will allow her to see you. If not, then she stays where she is for the rest of the trip. Understood?"

Nate tried to slow down the rapid-fire delivery in his head and managed to get enough of it to worry.

"Wait! Wait! You said you'd let her go, if _we_ let her go?" he asked.

"No. I said she wouldn't be hung with you three, if you let her go back to her _father_," The Hunter corrected him.

"You know, I could have sworn he said he'd let her go if he were hung _with_ us," Huey chimed in.

"No, son, that's not-"

"No, Huey. I think he said that he was going to be let go from work if he hung out with _her_," said Curtis, incorrectly.

"No! That's not what I-"

"Nah, boys! He's saying that we can see her father get _hung_ if we let ourselves go. Right?"

"_No!" _The Hunter barked in hair-pulling frustration. When he allowed himself to calm down again he looked at the three Griffins, and saw that they looked back at his displeasure with smug and silent amusement.

"Think you're _so_ funny, huh. Well, you'll all be knockin' 'em dead in Hell before long, I guarantee! Now what's it gonna be, Pork Barrel? You gonna do right by her, or are you gonna be selfish and let her swing with ya'll?"

Nate's full face went somber with the weight of that truth. Lois, his wife of almost twenty years, was going to die beside him, and there was something he could actually do about it.

"If…I say yes to this," he said slowly, fighting the visions of his wife's dead face staring at him. "You swear you'll let her go? Even if it's to her father?"

"My word as a gentleman," The Hunter said with a slight bow.

"No, Pop!" Curtis yelled at Nate. "Don't let him kill her! Don't let Mom die!"

Nate could say nothing to counter the bargain, and Curtis could see it in his eyes. He couldn't blame his father for this, he could see the hell he was going through, but he could do something to the man who brought down all of this inescapable grief.

Curtis shoved his pudgy arm through the spaces between a set of bars, straining, clawing his fingers in the air, to clutch The Hunter and drag him to the cage and…what? Choke him? Beat him? Kill him? He didn't know, but if it would free his mother from death, then no outcome was too harsh.

The Hunter took a cautious step back and warned Nate, "You better do something with that boy of yours, or he'll wind up being the caboose _to_ the caboose, ya understand?"

Nate put his hand on his eldest son's shoulder and called out to him.

"Curtis! Curtis! Stop it, boy! You can't help your mother this way. We have to be strong for her. We have to show her that we love her that much."

Curtis tore away from the bars to look at his father, tears freely rolling down his face.

"I don't want her to die! I…I don't want to die, _either_, Dad! I'm scared!"

"I know, son. We all have to, sometime. But, can you be brave for your mother that long, Curtis? _Can you?_"

Curtis bowed his head, trying to stop the shaking that rattled him from head to toe, but he slowly nodded. Then he walked over to a corner of the cage, sat down, and faced his mortality in silence.

Nate turned back to regard The Hunter with as much loathing as he though he deserved. He knew it wasn't nearly enough.

"Alright. You go what you wanted. We'll let her go. Now let us see her!"

The Hunter bowed in a mockery of obsequiousness and backed away.

"Your one and _only_ wish is my command," he said, as he slid the door open once more.

"Hey!"

The Hunter stopped in the middle of the threshold and turned to see Huey toddling up to the bars and looking dead into his eyes.

The Hunter gave a disdainful smirk and hunched down so Huey could see him better.

"What do you want, little man?"

"How much do you weigh?"

The Hunter looked quizzically at him. That was clearly an odd thing to ask, but he figured he'd humor him before his family was destroyed and he was ultimately sold off.

"A buck-ninety. Why?"

"Poison works more efficiently if one knows the weight of the victim," Huey explained with a polar logic that would have chilled a mortician.

The Hunter scoffed at him and left The Griffin Men to their misery.

The captain checked his pocket watch with one hand, and held a small picture in the other.

23:30 Hours.

Rather late for a security briefing, but he prided himself that no stowaway ever made it all the way to his or her destination with out doing it in the brig. Sleep could wait.

Since the unexpected news of the trespassers was so sudden, he decided to hold the impromptu meeting in the wheelhouse. Before him stood the Chief of Security and few of his subordinates, standing in a ready semi-circle.

"Gentlemen, as you know, we have a couple of stowaways on board," he said. "They've eluded us for now, but they'll show up again before we dock in New York."

"Do we know what they look like, sir?" asked the Chief.

"We have the head chef and some of the kitchen staff as witnesses who helped us with a description. The first one is tall, wearing gold or yellow, and the second one is short, wearing what appears to be blue and white, and communicates only by whistling. Here's an artist's rendering of what they look like."

He handed the Chief the picture. On it was an unforeseen portrait of R2-D2 and C-3PO.

_The bookstore had a packed house that day. The line of customers eager for Frederick Douglass to sign their copies of his newest book ran from the table of the guest of honor, through the store's interior, and around the block._

_Every patron in attendance guarded their spot in line jealously, and the pain in their feet and knees from standing so long and moving so slowly, was blocked out with the mental discipline of a high-ranking ninja._

_Frederick sat, or rather, lounged in his padded seat, coolly checking out the people who gladly marched to stand before his presence, just so he could deign to make their day or even lifetime. He glanced up again at the two slabs of meat that silently stood by him as bodyguards. A necessity in these times, he knew, but he wouldn't let their presence dampen his well-earned moment._

"_Who's next," he asked jovially, and sounding very much like Billy Dee Williams, as he readied his writing hand for another signature._

_As that satisfied person left, May appeared next, holding her copy to her chest as she nervously toddled up to him, like a penitent offering a sacrifice. _

"_Well, who might you be?" Frederick asked for the sake of conversation, as he reached out his hand to take the book and open it. Oddly, May still held onto it._

_May could barely force the words out, and she was still coming to grips with the fact that she was standing right in front of her idol and nothing untoward had happened to her yet._

"_M-May G-Griffin, sir," she managed to squeak out, and then she resumed her rigid stance._

_Frederick didn't think she wanted to hold the line up, but that was what she was in danger of doing, and the last thing he needed was for his bodyguards to have a reason to pound in heads and ruin his day._

"_I'm going to need that book, if you want me to sign it, little miss," he offered smoothly._

_May tensed, as though electrified, as though she were making up her mind to do the chanciest of behavior. Then, she went ahead and did it._

_Risking misconstrued action from his protectors, May rushed over to Frederick's side and quickly whispered in his ear. His eyes widened very quickly._

"_Are you sure, miss?" he asked, not wanting to disappoint, but not wanting to seem like a libertine, either. His answer, when she jumped back to her spot in line, was a madly anticipatory grin and a far-too-willing nod._

"_Okay." Frederick lifted his pen as May leaned over the table, closing her eyes to embrace the sheer joy of the moment._

_The pen's nib hovered over her right breast, and then, contact. He began to sign._

_With a sigh, May vowed in ecstasy, "I'll never wash this tit again."  
><em>

Meanwhile, in reality, May giggled softly in her sleep as an opportunistic seagull was busy pecking errant crumbs of food from off her chest, and was now finding the bits that stuck on her bodice.

"Mmm, you can start a new book on me, Freddie baby," she murmured contentedly.

The captain, the chief of security, the chief officer, and a security team beheld the sight that greeted them on the ship's roof. May and Dewey, splayed across the roof in deep sleep, amidst mostly covered dinner platters and hungry sea birds, feasting and fighting over the scraps the two left behind on their plates.

The captain approached the one that was focused on May and brutally kicked it away.

Blissfully unaware of him, May slept so soundly, that she let out a sudden and unladylike snore, muttering, "No, no! U-Use the eraser. I can take it."

The captain decided he heard enough. He walked back to his group, and with a blasé wave of his hand, ordered, "All right, men. Wake them up, but gently."

The armed security officers left their chief's side, turned and raised their rifles, and began hitting the two teens with butt strokes until the teens woke up, yelling in consternation.

When the rousing ceased, May and Dewey sat back to back, frightened, embarrassed, worried, and surrounded by angry officers. As much as they hated the situation, they hated themselves more for their carelessness. They were literally caught napping, and their inner voices were berating them for every woulda, shoulda, and coulda they could guiltily think of.

"Surprisingly clever of you to think of hiding on the roof," the chief smugly told them as they were brought to their feet by the rifle-bearing security team. "But you didn't count on God's flying rats of the sea, did you? The seagulls led us right to you."

"All right, men," the captain ordered the team when he turned to lead them back inside the ship. "Take Thomasine & Bushrod to the brig. They can keep those three slave catchers we caught company the rest of the way to New York."

As she and Dewey were being led back to the maintenance hatch, the implications were as clear as glass to her. With a mournful heart, she knew that once those cell doors closed on her, both in the brig, and later, in the jail house, she'd never see her family alive again.

A distant boom, like from a fireworks show, echoed across the sea, catching everyone's attention. A loud, ponderous splash followed, raising seawater in a foamy plume a few hundred yards from the tall bow of _Plymouth_. Then the alarm bell sounded.

Frightfully loud, not to mention late, for a supposed warning about their illegal presence, she wondered, as the bell continued to clang both louder and faster.

By the time she and Dewey were more or less fully awake, May realized that the bell was, in fact, ringing for something else, because all of the uniformed men around her began looking on the dark waters for something, and they were feeling as pensive as she was.

One of the security officers, the furthest from his group, spotted what looked like another side paddle steamer, only smaller, coming up from portside.

The ship's hull was low to the waterline and sleek, despite its squat, busy-looking topside. Dark crimson, though some would say blood red, sails were stretched with the nightly breeze.

But two things about the mysterious vessel gave the man pause. The first was the ring of cannons that radiated from amidships like arms in a Bob Fosse review. The second was what the officer saw emblazoned on the forward sail of the ship.

Dimly white, yet legible, even in the dark of the night, was the ship's symbol, as universally loathed, as it was feared.

"Skull and Crosswrenches!" the young man screamed in the wind. "Steam Pirates!"

The captain quickly took a bearing from where the officer was pointing and lined his spyglass with it, watching the approaching ship carefully.

When he spied the attached masthead of a sneering, humanoid rooster wearing an eyepatch, holding his feathered crotch with one hand and raising a sword to the oncoming waves with the other, the captain muttered to any within earshot, "Damn! It's that floating phallic symbol, the _Sea Cock_!"

Another boom, and a heavier splash erupted from the water dangerously close to the _Plymouth's_ hull, a quick warning shot from the pirate ship's forward guns that proved that she was more than prepared to breach the cruise ship should the order be given.

The captain went to his chief officer and led him away from the others to talk privately.

"Get all the passengers together and bring them to the Grand Lobby. Make sure they have all of their personal valuables with them, too. My thinking is the pirates won't _kill_ me if they see that the guests are carrying loot. And raise the Pirate-Universal Surrender of Ships and Yachts flag so they can see it."

"The P-USSY flag, sir?" the second-in-command asked.

"Correct. I don't want them to think we're not complying, and they sink this ship. 'Cause I'm not going down with you freaks."

"I _knew _there was a reason why you're captain, sir," the officer said proudly. "But what about the stowaways?"

Mentioning them threw the man off-stride for a second, so he gave a thoughtful look at the pair. His eyes then twinkled with a devious plan.

"Take them to the Equipment Room. I think I have an idea that just might save my lily-white ass, yet again."

"Very capital, top drawer, spank-me-in-a-tutu, good, sir,"

"Carry on."

May almost lost sight of Dewey in the crush of the crowd when the Equipment Room was filled with of all Ebots, both off-duty and the rest who were relieved of duty.

The tension level in the room was understandably high. Governor, Smokestack and Lens did their best to lower their subordinates' anxieties with varying degrees of success.

In a corner set away from the growing unease around them, May and Dewey sat together, one focusing solely on the other, and finding a measure of stability in the turmoil.

They could see in each other's eyes that they both weren't quite sure how to proceed with the state of affairs set before them, both tactically and romantically.

May's mind and heart were as tossed and out of control as a raft in a hurricane. With the fear of what was to come, even if she wasn't exactly sure what it was, threading in and out of her thoughts about Dewey and that kiss, it almost crowded out the distressing thoughts of not seeing her family again. Of failing when they were so close to clearing the first hurdle of this perilous journey.

'_Pirates,' _she thought. _'I sure didn't see _this_ coming. Just like last night. Did I do the right thing with that kiss?'_

'_Well, technically, _he_ kissed _you_,' _her mental twin, a manifestation her inner voice, said.

'_Yeah, well, I don't remember pulling away, either. Guess my lips were too busy to say 'Stop'.'_

'_Don't tell me you're _regretting_ this. You do _like_ him, don't you?'_

'_The first boy who ever wanted to spend more than a few minutes with me? Duh!' _May scoffed sarcastically.

'_Then what's the problem?" _her double asked. _"It was just a kiss. A great, big, wonderful kiss!'_

'That's_ the problem. Everything's going so fast, I...I don't know what will happen next. God, I'm such a country girl!" _she fretted to herself. _"All I know is Quahog and, technically, the plantation I grew up in. But I can see it in his eyes that Dewey's been everywhere, done...everything.'_

'_You're afraid you're going to lose him already?'_

'_I can't help it. I never had this feeling before. It's amazing. It's like getting struck by lightning, and I'm afraid whatever I have as a failing, is gonna drive him away."_

With her stomach slightly twisting in a knot, May had to force herself to admit what came next.

"_I know he's seen prettier girls than me. He might even have…slept with a few. But when I see him, I keep asking myself, 'Why me?' Am I lucky? Am I fooling myself? I love what I think I'm getting into, but because it's _me_, I'm afraid it'll be gone in the morning.'_

Her inner voice shook her head compassionately and put her hand on May's shoulder, squeezing it for emphasis.

'_Listen to me. You may know what's in your heart, May Griffin, but you don't know what's around the corner. That's part of the fun. The other part's _him_. Ask him what he sees in you. He might be worldly, he might not, but that doesn't mean he always knows a good thing when it's in front of him. It's up to you to show him what that is.'_

May let those understanding words seep deep into her soul and the simple wisdom of their message began melting her insecurities away, at least for now.

'_Thanks. I really feel a lot better now.'_

'_That's great, because we're probably going to be killed by pirates, and it's a safe bet that it'll be more merciful than you explaining to your boyfriend why you just spent the last moments of _both_ your lives _talking_, instead of thinking, to yourself.'_

May stiffened in mortification, her ears burning. "What?"

'_I'm just sayin',' _her inner voice shrugged. Then she quietly vanished.

May uncomfortably looked at Dewey's kindly, yet quizzical expression following her odd soliloquy.

"It's the stress. _Really_," she tried to explain with a painfully awkward smile.

Dewey paused to consider the moment, and then dismissed it away with a shake of his head, chuckling to free all of the pent-up stress and anxiety he, himself, was feeling.

"You're one interestin' girl, May Griffin," he declared, smiling.

"I am?" she asked.

"True dat. If it means anything, I don't regret that kiss last night, and I don't know where we're goin with this, _either_. But, I don't mind sharin' the trip with you."

"Oh, Dewey," May sighed relievedly, her awkward smile growing more and more into a peaceful one.

The front hatch opened and security filed in, ordering every worker to his or her feet, and to accompany them to the main deck.

Holding her hand as they both stood and followed the rest of the crowd, he said to her, "C'mon, interestin' girl. Let's see what's goin' on."

By the time the swift criminal vessel sidled up to the _Plymouth_, a large, pink flag with the picture of a kitten wearing a sailor's cap, was flying high and snapping in the breeze above the cruise ship.

Longboats, heavily modified to be longer still, to hold more people, and rigged, catamaran-style, with lengthy pontoons that contained miniature rear paddle steam engines, launched from the _Sea Cock's _davits and cruised to their prey.

Grapples snagged railings and pirates attached lines to reinforced metal rings on their belts. With well-practiced leaps, the brigands clamped onto _Plymouth's_ hull and virtually walked up its surface via specialized boots with magnets in the heels and toes.

"P-USSY flag up, sir!" an officer confirmed to the captain upon its raising.

"Very good, officer," he acknowledged.

He then turned to the security officers that lined the railing facing the encroaching thieves.

"Gentlemen, prepare for boarders."

The armed men held up their rifles in line with the railing, waiting for the first criminals to show up, in order, it seemed, to cut them down. Suddenly, they dropped the weapons to the deck, and held up their hands, just as the pirates, led by their flamboyantly dressed leader, clambered on board.

The chief officer came forward and greeted one of the pirates with an ingratiating grin.

"Welcome aboard the _Plymouth_. We understand that you have a choice of ships to plunder, so we thank you for-"

"Non!" said the French leader. "You do not address him. He is only my seaman from my _Sea Cock_. You will speak to me, Capitan Petit-Crockaire."

The officer thought he had misheard. "Captain…_Betty Crocker_?"

"Non. Petit-Crockaire."

"Betty Crocker?"

"Petit-Crockaire!"

"Betty Crocker?"

"Petit-Crockaire!"

"Bet-_Oomph_!" The officer quickly doubled over from a vicious kick in the groin delivered by the Frenchman.

Leaving the man in a heap, he looked up to see the P-USSY flag waving overhead.

"Ah! It _nevaire_ fails. When ze _Sea Cock _is out, you respond with ze P-USSY, non?" he commented to any who could hear him.

"Bonsoir, Capitan," he greeted the senior officer. "My crew and I zank you. Once again, your perennial cowardice will make our haul a successful one."

Petit-Crockaire's pleasant demeanor changed to one of sudden suspicion when he noticed the large congregation of black crewers standing together off on one side of the deck, none of them knowing what to make of any of this.

"What is zis?" he asked. "Why do you have zese blacks on your deck? Were zey here to help you defend your ship?"

The Plymouth's captain gave a sly shrug. "You could say that. They're _yours_. A little something extra to help sweeten the pot and insure that my ass, my ship, my crew and the passengers, _in that order_, remain unharmed."

The Frenchman gave a tight, greedy grin. "A tribute, eh? Well, we can always get a little something for zem on ze slave market."

"Don't you mean, the _black_ market?" the American quipped.

Both men belly-laughed boisterously until Petit-Crockaire decided to give him a sudden backhanded slap to the face.

"Shut up, you sniveling, little man-person!" the freebooter commanded.

"Shutting up, sir. Yes, sir," he said, obsequiously, favoring his reddened cheek.

Petit-Crockaire strutted up to his men, shouting triumphantly, "Come, men! Tonight, we fill ze _Sea Cock _with booty!"

He then took a lustful glance at some of the younger black women in the crowd.

"And maybe fill some booties with ze sea cock, eh? Take zem!"

As practiced plunderers, the pirates split into two teams. One went inside the ship's opulent lobby and handled the collection of the passengers' reluctantly donated wealth. The other went to gather the black crewers.

Although the Ebots gave half-hearted resistance to their rough corralling, they more or less moved where they were led, which was to the ship's railing.

May thought that she and the others were going to be fatally dumped overboard, until she saw a number of strange devices clamped to the top rail.

Crude zip lines, newly attached by the pirates, sat ready to transfer the prisoners, one by one, under rifle sight, to the waiting _Sea Cock's _deck.

Using a retrieval line attached to the lines' trolleys, the black workers were forced by their captors to haul up the riding handlebars, after every ride. With this method, eventually, all workers were brought over in a very short time.

Team One's pirates left the ship's interior with bags of plunder in their grasp, and a mysterious man in a brown suit bringing up the rear.

When the last of the buccaneers, guarding the escape, finally climbed and disappeared over the railing, Petit-Crockaire regarded the captain and the _Plymouth_ crew, gracing them with a full and genteel bow.

"Gentlemen, zank you for bending over for ze _Sea Cock_!" he crowed. "Until we meet again! Adieu!"

He then took his leave, in true piratical flourish, literally _leaping_ over the side.

The cowardly captain of the _Plymouth_ ran over to the railing and looked over it, just in time to see a parachute blossoming from below, carrying the French freebooter safely to the main deck of his ship. With a cocky wave from her captain, the _Sea Cock _began to withdraw.

As the pirate ship sailed farther and farther away, along the watery path of reflected moonlight, the youthful lieutenant gingerly approached the captain, asking him, "When the company learns of the pirate attack, what shall we tell them about the missing Ebots, sir?"

The captain continued to stare out at the receding aft end of the pirate ship, thankful that he still lived, and thankful that maybe, just maybe, he was able to teach his beloved crew a lesson about the value of self-preservation.

"The same thing we _always_ say. That the brave Ebots decided to give themselves up as hostages in order to save the ship and all aboard her. Yeah, I'd believe that."

He let out a fatigued sigh over his close call, telling his subordinate, "I think we lose more Negroes this way. Oh, well. Out of sight, out of mind. Lieutenant, set a course for New York City, maximum warp."

"Right away, sir!" said the chief officer; more convinced than ever that he was blessed to serve under this obviously honorable man.

May and the other captives were herded in short order through a hatch in the main deck, through the gunnery deck, and into the cluttered hold.

Apparently kidnapping was a lucrative affair to them, as well, she figured, when she saw two large cages sitting on opposite sides of the hold. Immediately the black captives were separated and introduced to their new steely homes; a cage for the men, and the other for the women.

As the pirates filed out of the hold, a force of two guards was left behind. May couldn't believe her luck. Getting taken from one boat to another, and _still _winding up in a brig. She wanted to see Dewey, but the cage he was in was too far across the room. All she could see was the restless mass of men confined cramply.

With a sigh, she figured that if Dewey wanted to see her, he'd get the same view, with her absorbed into the throng.

A good deal of chatter from both cages died down the moment both groups heard the sound of stylish boots treading heavily on the wooden stairs.

Petit-Crockaire, escorted by two of his men, entered the hold and took an appraising look at the black men in the cage. Satisfied, he strolled more leasurely towards to the women's cage.

As one, all of the women recoiled as the pirate captain approached, filling the rear of the cage, and not caring who was being crushed behind them.

"Why do you run, my dark beauties, eh?" he asked slyly as he reached the bars and luxuriated in the fear his presence inspired. "Oui, it is true zat some of you will be sold again, but don't zink of it as zat. Zink of it as a chance to travel to unknown places…like a new master's home, eh?"

He allowed the women a few minutes to wail and weep over this news, as he rolled his eyes in ecstatic pleasure at the sight, and rubbed his hands all over his chest with slow abandon.

"Yes, yes, my lovelies, yes," he moaned lustfully while his escort stared at him with _deep_, _deep_ suspicions. "Weep for me. You make love to me with your sorrow. _You make love to me with your sorrow!_"

He suddenly stopped his antics to continue with his speechmaking.

"_Ahem_. As for ze rest of you, you will have ze honor and pleasure of serving the crew of the illustrious _Sea Cock _as our…mistresses, as it were. But, as I've always been a big believer of testing out ze merchandise, one of you will become my new test sample, if you will. Don't be shy. You've nothing to lose…_but your dignity._"

May, not being able to muscle her way to the dubious safety of the back, was exposed up front with a few of the other terrified women. When she heard frantic whispering behind her, she glanced over her shoulder to see the same three girlfriends who gave her so much grief on board the _Plymouth, _chattering fast in a huddle.

May could see that they were, at least, used to working as a team, in all aspects, including, she knew, man-catching, and in this instance, survival. Their eyes darted nervously around the closest women near them, searching. _Searching_.

Then, without warning, they all locked eyes onto May.

She didn't think she gave herself away while she was spying on their talk, so their stare completely startled her. Together, the trio made room through the throng and pulled May into their circle of three with haste.

"What's going on?" May asked as the girls crowded around her.

"Listen to us, May," whispered One. "As women, we have to protect ourselves from the likes of him, right?"

"Yeah! There's no sense in letting him run roughshod over us, if we can help it," agreed Two.

"And at the same time, we gotta let him know that we aren't going to take his crap," Three chimed in.

"Are you with us…sister?" asked One.

"Yeah," May said slowly. She tried to guess what on earth they could possibly do as a group that could keep an entire boatload of horny sailors at bay. Options were, to put it kindly, limited.

"We can tell them we've got crabs," May suggested.

"This guy eats snails and frogs for fun. What the hell are crabs to him?" One scoffed.

"We can send them Mary," Three offered.

Somewhere in the depths of the crowd, an angry woman's voice called out and clearly said, "Fuck you, whoever said that."

One ignored her and fixed a look of conviction into May's eyes.

"Okay, look. Focus. We have to work together on this. Now we three have come up with a plan. When he asks for one of us to come with him, we're all going to turn our backs on him."

May was flabbergasted into silence.

"That's it?" May asked, completely astounded. "He's gonna come in here, and you guys are gonna play out the last scene from _A Nightmare On Elm Street_?"

"It'll work, May," Two insisted. "But only if everyone shows strength together."

"How about it? Will you stand with us?" One pressed. "As sisters?"

May sighed heavily on this course of action. It was foolhardy. It was meaningless. It was doomed to fail. Yet, despite the futility that this motion was sure to demonstrate, that trio had, to May's chagrin, worked on her sense of feminine solidarity, which gave her the slimmest of hope that this would succeed.

"Alright," she finally acquiesced.

"Thank you, May. You truly are one of us," One said, giving May a reassuring pat on the back.

Two parted people away so May would be able to return to where she was earlier. "You better go back up front, so you won't be missed."

"We'll let you know when it's time, sister," Three assured her.

"Alright," May said as she maneuvered back to the front of the crowd, never noticing the note that One craftily hung on her back.

Petit-Crockaire, waiting with surprising patience, finally said to them, "Now, if zis coffee klatch is finished, let us see who will be the one I will bury my treasure in."

From within the mass of women, One shouted, "Now!"

Every woman and girl, in a swift motion, turned their collective backs on the randy captain, including, with some misgivings, May.

The captain, preparing to unlock the door, stopped, perplexed. What kind of action was this? Apart from showing off some of their shapelier backs and derriers, this certainly wasn't going to stop him from making a choice. If anything, it was actually _helping _with the selection process.

However, it wasn't until he saw what was written on the sign hanging unbeknownst to May, that he finally _did_ make a choice.

"Her!" he said, pointing directly at the small, bespectacled, teenaged girl with the sign on her back that read, _"Come Dock In My Harbor!"_

The pirate captain hastily unlocked the cage door, allowing his escort to rush in and grab a very surprised May from behind and lift her off her feet.

The chances were already laughable that this move of defiance would have actually worked, but she didn't think that she would have been picked out, and so soon. Surely there were comlier girls than her. What was the deciding factor?

"Wait! See? I _knew_ this wasn't going to work!" May yelled as she left the brig.

"No! Wait! I'm no good for you. I know how to read and write. Smart girls will only bring out your deep-seated insecurities! Why do you want me anyway? I'm not even _tall_!" she continued, squirming in a panic.

The Frenchman gave an eager chuckle. "Do not fret so, mon petite. You may be ze runt of the litter, but you'll be my bitch, soon enough."

While she was struggled, May heard the sound of paper being crumpled. A slightly crushed sheet of paper floated to the floor by her feet.

Petit-Crockaire bent down to retrieve the sheet, and then held it up for May to see. She made out the words written in hurried boldface. It wasn't hard to figure out how it got there.

May's heart first sank from the betrayal, and then burned for vengeance, as she was carried up the stairs leading out of the hold, followed by her would-be paramour, to the sound of three devious sisters singing La Marseilles and waving farewell.

All May could do was vent her last words before being carried out of the room.

"_You BITCHES!"_


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter _Seven-_

Lois opened the door to the prison car gingerly, almost as if she didn't want to disturb the occupants within. When she saw Nate sitting on the cold floor next to her sleeping sons in a cage, the feelings of elation upon seeing them was neutralized by her depression on seeing them in such a state.

With the door rolling back to close, Lois called out Nate's name timidly. He jumped to his feet to meet her at the bars when he saw who it was.

"Lois, are you alright?" he asked while he held her slim hands through the iron bars. "What happened? We didn't see you for hours."

"I'm okay, Nate. I'm fine. How are the kids? Are _they_ okay?"

"They're fine," Nate replied with certainty. "Oh, I missed you so much. What did that man want with you?"

"He's a bounty hunter my dad hired to bring me back home. He said that Dad paid him a lot of money to bring all of us home, so he can hang you and the kids, baby."

"I know. He told us."

Lois hesitated a moment, not confident that she knew how to broach this additional bad news. "Not everything, Nate. That bounty hunter wants to…marry me, after you all die."

"What?" He was surprised that he didn't think The Hunter's treachery could plumb so far down.

"I know, but I told him that I wouldn't," Lois explained. "He threatened that I might die with you, but I don't care. I love you and I'll be by your side, Nate. Always."

His face and heart turned into blank stone. It had to be done.

"No."

"No? No, what?" she asked incredulously.

"You have to let us go, Lois," he said sadly.

She couldn't understand what he just said, and since this was Nate she was talking to, that was saying something. But if that was the case, why was her stomach twisting with a life of its own, in fear.

The fear, being of _loss_, that radiated from his wife like heat. Nate knew he was doing all of this to save her, and he had to turn into steel to get through this without weakening and ultimately killing her.

"No," she told him in a near-whisper. The blow of losing her family took too much out of her already. "I told you that I'm gonna stay by you and the boys-_Oh, God! I forgot about May!_" she suddenly remembered.

"Well, I guess that means that you and May will be safe, then," Nate reasoned with a hopeful tone.

"What do you mean?"

"The boys and I decided that we're going to let you go, Lois. It's the only way you'll be safe. It's the only way we can be sure."

"But I don't want to go back to my father, Nate. I want to be with you."

"I didn't say we we're gonna let you go back to your father," he said sternly. "I said we we're gonna let you go."

"I don't understand."

"I want you to _live_, Lois. If it means finding someone new, then, we won't mind. As long as you're safe."

"But, Nate…"

"Listen to me, Lois. I haven't been known to throw my weight around, unless I'm trying on a pair of pants. And I tried to never make a hard way for you or the kids, but as the man of this family, I'm tellin' you right now that I want you to _go_."

Whatever Lois thought of saying as a rebuttal, died before her husband's sincerity.

"I don't care how much you may cry, or how much you _will_ see _me_ cry, you better do as I say, because if you don't, I'll _hate_ you. I'll hate you while you're swingin' next to me, because I want you to be free, and I'll be _damned_ if I take that away from you."

It was too much. The loss that was to come. The finality of his choice in the face of such a harsh and loveless world, gave birth to a feeling of pride so strong, it cracked Lois in two, and she deeply wept.

"Now…now don't cry, darlin'. Do you see? You gave up so much for me and the children. You deserve to be happy again. Let's face it. You weren't born to live like we do. That's just fate, I guess. But you made us _happy_, Lois, so this is the least we can do for you."

In her mind, she didn't deserve such an out. Skin was going to save her, and doom her family. Skin was going to reward her for doing nothing, and damn others into doing everything until they dropped.

She hated the _politics_ of her skin, hated being in it, now. It only served as a crucible that boiled down the injustice into its purest form. But she could still have some say in this tragedy. Show her solidarity to her husband in the end.

Indignant anger made her grab the bars in front of Nate's face and bring her face up close to his.

"You listen to me, you sanctimonious asshole," she said hotly. "I didn't give up what I did for nothing. I did it because I _love_ you. Yes, there are times when I wish I could be the woman I was, and enjoy the life I had, and I still may, but that's _my_ cross to bear. That's something _I'll_ have to deal with. Don't you think I could have left you if I wanted to? I love you and the children, and no amount of wishing for the good old days will ever _change_ that."

Her determination made his chest swell. It was that bravery and love of life, as well as her beauty, that made him want her for his own. Nate wished to Heaven he could take them all away from this slow-stewing nightmare. He wished this whole damn world was different, and their love wasn't such a stigma. But wishes were nothing, and steel wasn't enough. He had to become as _ice_.

"I don't care," he lied bitterly. "I still don't want you to die, so you do whatever you want to do when we reach Virginia, but you better not hang around when _we_ do. _Do you understand me?_" He then turned his broad back to her, waiting for her to leave.

Lois, tearing up again, couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't stop her father's plan on her own, and Nate just shut her out, just when she wanted to prove her devotion to him in the most crucial and most critical of times.

He just wouldn't buckle, wouldn't _move_. She could beg, but time was running out, and the loveless creatures of logic and sacrifice tore her heart out by the roots so thoroughly, she thought it was a miracle that she could still stand.

"Damn you, Nate Griffin! _Damn you!_" she cursed in teary devastation behind him, as she left the car and her pitiable family, not wanting to look back at things that reminded her of just how helpless mercy was in the world.

Captain Petit-Crockaire's two goons dumped May easily onto the plush, wide bed, and then marched out of the captain's quarters.

May knew she couldn't leave the cabin just yet, with the possibility that the door was guarded, so she looked around to get the lay of the place and maybe find a good spot to hide.

One thing she noticed right off the bat were the number of mirrors surrounding the bed. Not just the large one that was strangely hung _over_ the bed, which to May, seemed rather dangerous, but the other cheval mirrors positioned in different places and angles around the bed's periphery.

Either this Frenchie was a true egomaniac, she figured, or he _really_ likes to critique his own performance in the sack.

The door opened again, cutting her train of thought short in a panic when the captain sauntered in and pushed the door closed.

With a click of the lock, May rolled over the surface of the bed and landed on the other side. The tactic was obvious and clear. Keep as much distance and as many obstacles between the captain and herself.

Luckily, Petit-Crockaire was in a playful mood and didn't simply chase her down from where he was leaning against the door. He simply watched her dart and zip from one dubious hiding place to another, with her eyes always watching him and his bemused and wolfish smile.

"Please, don't run. You'll only get raped tired," he advised as he moved away from the door and slowly homed in on her position, behind an ornate chair next to his equally large and ornate writing desk.

Looking at a nearby mirror, May could see what was turning him on. The sight of a scared, helpless, black girl few people would actually miss.

"Uh, I really shouldn't be here," she blurted out.

"Oh? And why not my little pigeon?"

"I, uh, _told_ you already. I read a lot. I'm-I'm _smart_. Doesn't that kill all of your expectations about black women?"

The Frenchman stopped his stalking to both explain, and to May's alarm, undress. "Au contraire! Do you know a Madam Glenda Quagmire?"

That was totally unexpected. What did that troublesome woman have to do with any of this? "Why?"

"She runs a fascinating whorehouse in Rhode Island, and the last time I was there, she told me that exotic girls were all the rage. Particularly, well-read black girls," he told her while looking her up and down. "It seems that she was right."

May, who had hunkered down behind the large chair, stood up fully in curiosity at that comment.

"Whachu talkin' bout?" she asked, before realizing how much more vulnerable she was for standing, and how much more exposed he was. She ducked back down to eye level to watch him.

He nodded in the direction of his bed. Her manuscript lay there were it fell from her during her roll across it.

"That's not mine," he said smugly.

"You think it's _mine_?" she asked, nervously giggling.

"Oui. And I told Madam Quagmire that I happen to like exotic girls. A lot," he said, resuming his patient stalk.

May nervously giggled as he started to close the distance. "Exotic? There's nothing remotely erotic, uh, I mean, _exotic_ about lil' ol' me! Plain as porridge! That's what they call me!"

"And yet, you are trying to write a book. You are wearing a pair of spectacles, and you claim that you can read, too."

"I didn't say I could read _French_!" May amended.

The captain ignored her. "That means you are somehow educated, and that's as exotic as it _gets_!"

He reached out and pulled the chair over, exposing May, who instinctively flew around to one side of the desk before he could grab her.

"You're quick," he purred. "I _like_ this game. Don't worry about the noise when I finally catch you. My guard won't disturb us."

He moved to the desk, as well, but every time he tried to go around it to pursue, she would maintain enough speed to keep herself equidistant from him, whether he moved left or right.

The captain decided to try it one more time, moving as fast as he could in direct pursuit, and May, to her horror, found that he closed the gap and was close enough to reach out and catch her.

Desperately, she tried to increase the distance by changing course and running out where there was more room. Unfortunately, she ran _back_ to where she had landed on the other side of the bed after her initial flight from him.

Petit-Crockaire gave a hungry laugh as he prepared to corner her between the mirrors and the bedside, but she simply repeated her maneuver, rolling back to where she was when she was first brought to his room.

But in her haste, she had forgotten to retrieve her manuscript and it still lie in the center of the bed.

Rather that be upset over her surprising nimbleness, he smiled lasciviously at all of her scrambling. The door was locked, and she'd soon tire herself out in his web, and then the spider would crawl over and claim his prize.

"Don't worry, mon petite," the captain calmly said as he began to climb across the bed. "I like zem with a little know-how. Just relax, and I'll teach you all about sums with _my_ yardstick."

At first, May nervously watched him approach, and then after a chance peek at the pirate's so-called "yardstick", she couldn't help but take some of the wind out of his sails with a dismissive comment on it.

"Starting the lesson with _fractions_, are we?" she cockily joked.

The brigand, stung by the dig, growled, "Why, you little-" Then he stopped and glanced over at her vulnerable document with a vengeful eye.

Reaching over, he grabbed the script and opened it from the middle, watching her clearly worried reaction.

"Let's see how smart your little mouth is when you see your book torn to shreds," he said with a cruel laugh.

"Don't! Please, it's my life's work!"

"Now, _I _am." He looked down at the pages he was about to rip out.

The second he absently read some of the badly, amateurish text, a luminescent agony blossomed in the center of his consciouness, as though he had been shot in the head.

He cried out and collapsed on the covers in a twitching heap, and then he lay still.

May stood as stuned as the captain from the reaction he had with the book, and then a sad enlightenment took over.

"They were right," she said to herself in a morose monotone. "It…it…_is_ that bad. I thought I had something great, something _wonderful_. I thought I…"

The fact that, mere moments ago, she was a gnat's wing from losing her innocence, didn't faze her as badly as this revelation. All the jokes, all the teasing…it was completely justified.

May walked over to the chair she hid behind earlier, righted it, and sat in a funk. No one was going to read her book now. All of that time she spent on it was for naught, and the cold water of truth made her finally see the book for what it truly was.

Juvenile, aimless musings and rambling narrative that covered whole chapters and said nothing. Pretentious imaginings more suitable for psychoanalysts to pick apart, than for the average reader enjoy.

Even the half-remembered laughter of classmates, bullies and family members punctuated the truth, and she could blame none of them.

Add to the fact that it was so bad written, as to become a _weapon_ to all who read it, was the final nail in the coffin.

_Coffin_.

_The dead. The dying. And the not-yet-dying. _

_Her people down below._

And with that moment of dark clarity, she was brought back into the captain's quarters and the situation she had left, before she stepped out to have her one-woman pity party.

In her heart of hearts, she knew that she was an amateur who jumped into the water with both feet, and that was being _gracious._ In her defense, she wanted to believe that her travails as an ex-slave would give her carte blanche to be undisciplined, and the world would take pity and accept her work. The world wasted no time in showing her otherwise.

'_Lesson learned, I guess,' _she thought soberly.

Her people were _still_ at the pirates' mercy, however, but then she realized she had done the truly startling. Subduing their leader handily. With a book.

She ran back to the bed and grabbed her maunscript with awakened eyes.

"I guess my book _does_ suck as reading material, but I bet it makes a hell of a WMD," she said to herself. Looking over at the downed captain, she mused, "Now how do I get out of here?"

Thinking back, she remembered that he had mentioned a guard outside. With an evil grin creasing her face, May ran back to the desk and gathered a pen, ink, and a sheet of paper.

"Well, if I'm gonna be a serious writer, there's no time like the present," she said, as she put pen to paper and came up with a short masterpiece.

The single guard who stood outside the locked cabin door knew he heard the ruckus going on inside, but past experience listening to the captain's romantic conquests taught him not to be too alarmed about it.

In fact, he was already fantasizing about what he was going to do with the black he was going to choose. Someone young, strong and flexible to match his prowess in bed.

He looked down between his legs to watch his reaction to all of that thinking, when something else caught his attention there.

A small, folded note slipped out from under the cabin door and rested by his big feet. He picked it up and unfolded it. What he read was surprising, to say the least.

_To my big, brave, strong man. I confess that I'm not the man I present myself to be. Having this girl brought to my cabin was just a pretense. I really like men, and _you_, in particular. If you feel as I do, please come into my quarters...and enter my cabin, too. _

_Love, The Captain_

The guard took a moment to digest this, and then made his decision.

The cabin door opened slowly. The guard peered inside and found the great room dark, with only partial illumination from the moonlight coming through the grandiose windows within.

"Captain?" the guard whispered, but no one replied.

As the door opened wider and allowed the big man to enter, May, hiding behind the door, silently slipped out from behind it, and snuck out of the room before the big, slow-moving door closed all the way shut on its own.

"Have fun, Betty," she whispered to herself as she tiptoed away.

A few curious and therefore unconscious guards later, May reached the hatch on the main deck that led to the gunnery deck, and below that, the hold. With most of the crew asleep and she armed with her manuscript, May knew she'd face little resistance on her way back to Dewey and the others.

The hatch was already opened to allow ventilation, so she crept down the stairs, stopping occasionally whenever they creaked, but her passage alerted no one in the end.

A worrying thought pricked at May's mind as she looked around the gunnery deck, making sure that none of the gunners, still sleeping in their hammocks, stirred.

If she managed to free her compatriots, what was to stop these brigands from recapturing them? As grim as it sounded to her, the pirates would have to be taken out of the game.

She thought about tearing pages out of her book and placing them on each cannon, or on the gunners before they left, that way the pirates would see the pages, read them by accident, and be incapacitated.

But May soon dismissed that notion. In the frantic race to get to station, none of them would even notice the sheets until after the fact, when the Ebots, Dewey and herself were either recaptured and put under serious guard, or they all found peace in the deep bosom of the Atlantic from cannon fire.

May then looked around again after that thought.

Cannon fire. Fire. _Explosions_.

Being seized by a brainstorm, May gritted her teeth against such a dangerous course of action and walked _deeper_ into the deck while the men slept.

She remembered reading a cast-off dime novel about a privateer and his crew holding off a foreign navy's fleet while escaping. The narrative explained the properties of the strange black powder that made the cannons work and how dangerous it was, if mishandled.

Creeping past the inert cannons, May spotted in the gloom what she was looking for. Against the far wall was stacked barrel after packed barrel full of high-grade gunpowder.

Taking out her knife from under her skirt, she approached one of the higher stacked barrels, stuck the knifepoint into its bung, and quietly worked the stopper out. A stream of powder ran free and flowed to the floor.

Next, May snuck over to one gunner's hammock and found a mug next to his shoes.

And upon seeing the footwear, May had _another_ crazy idea.

Dewey sat in the sweaty muddle of men in the cage, feeling as though he were the last man on Earth.

He ignored the whispered calls, waves, and kisses thrown his way from the treacherous triplets across the hold from him. All he knew was that the girl he fell in love with was, by now, undone. Her innocence lost.

In a better world, he wished that she would grant him the honor of being her very first love, now, he sadly resolved that he would be there for her, for however long they had before they were sold off.

He despondently lifted his head upon hearing the two guards stand from their chairs and walk up the stairs under the prompting of someone calling them both from above.

Both men ascended, the sound of pages being turned was faintly heard, and then the two men crashed back down and crumpled senselessly by the foot of the stairs.

The racket was loud enough to rouse everyone in both cages. People wondered if it was a mutiny, or just a drunkard's dispute. No one would have believed seeing little May Griffin walking triumphantly in the guards' wake.

She went over to the women's cage, pulling out a large ring of keys that once sat on the pirate captain's desk, his master set. After several hurried tries, she found the right one and unlocked the door.

After the crowd of women was released, the triplets stood nearby, watching May strangely. She didn't behave like anyone they had known before. A clear example of which was that she didn't look like she was holding an immediate grudge.

One stepped forward to May. If there was a disagreement, she wanted the fury to fall on her first, to protect her sisters.

"What happened in there? How did you get back here so fast?" she asked.

May simply glanced over at the girl. "Guess I wore him out," she replied cockily.

May ran over to the other cage and freed the prisoners there. She waited for Dewey to come out of the stampede, and she was rewarded with a crushing hug from the teenager, when he shot out of the crowd like a breeching dolphin.

May held him and placed her head close to his chest to feel his heartbeat. It was too close. For everything, it was too close.

"How in the world did you escape from the captain, cher?" Dewey asked in her hair.

"Well, you know the saying, 'All's well, that ends well?'"

"Yeah."

"Well, let's just say that hopefully, someone's _all_ up in _his_ end," she joked.

This time it was May who broke the contact and had Dewey wishing secretly for more. She turned to the others for quiet and motioned for them to huddle around her.

To those who were farthest from the center, they could only hear from May a series of sibilant half-words and whispery, pseudo-conversational tones.

A worker turned to another and asked if he knew what she was saying. The worker he had asked, answered back with that same series of sounds.

Up the stairs, from the hold, to the main deck, the workers crept slowly and quietly. The men led, carrying torn sheets of May's manuscript to hold up and dispatch any pirates they ran across. The women, also armed, brought up the rear.

It was a strange feeling for most of them to stand on the main deck of a ship unmolested, but the multitude of alert eyes couldn't see anyone other than themselves on deck.

Smokestack took a studied look at the intricate, mechanized davits securing the steam longboats to the mothership, and after a minute or three, had roughly deduced how they worked.

He motioned to the men and women to quickly get in the boats while he operated the levers that would lower the boats down.

As passenger after passenger approached the craft, May stood on hand to collect every page a worker had on him or her, like a ticket taker, to prevent them from looking at the sheets accidentally during transit.

As she stuffed the sheets back into her book and the boats steadily filled, May saw Dewey coming over.

"I didn't know you were such a talented writer, to do that to people, cher," he complimented.

May gave a self-conscious half-smile and meekly replied, "Thanks, Dewey. Guess I'm just killing them softly with my words."

"Hey, Roberta Flack," Smokestack called to her. "Everybody's accounted for except us. You two get on board and I'll catch up."

May turned to Dewey. "You better get going. If he's going to still be up here, he's going to need me and my book."

"No way, cher. I'm not leaving you up here if those pirates come at the two of you. Let _me_ read your book, and you get in the boat, instead."

"No!" she blurted out. She couldn't bear the thought or the guilt of Dewey being harmed by her book if he ever got a hold of it. "I mean, I've got this one. You can play hero for me next time, I promise."

"Well…" he grumbled, but he complied and slowly walked over to one of the boats.

"I'll save a spot for you," he said before embarking.

"Thanks."

Then the bullets began scarring the decking, and Smokestack swore as he worked the controls through the gunfire.

"Get them out of here!" May ordered him in her fright, as she looked around for cover and found precious little by the side of the ship.

With a frantic tug of the release lever, the lines holding the boats up in the davits brought them down in almost a freefall. The craft hit the waters below in clumsy splashes.

"What about us?" Smokestack asked nervously as he and May dodged a few more shots. Then there was quiet as the pirates paused to reload.

May looked down at her document thoughtfully for a second or two, and then told him, "Stick your fingers in your ears!"

The engineer's expression darkened. "Well, same to _you_, missy," he said in misconstrued indignation.

"No! No!" she cried out as she saw piratical hands finishing their loading with practiced speed. "I'm gonna read the book! Stick your fingers in your ears!"

Smokestack obeyed as May opened the book to a random page and read as loudly as she could. The effects were frighteningly immediate.

Pirates gritted their teeth against the pain that suddenly crawled into their heads. Torment threw off their aim, and bullets either hit the deck, or soared away to the sea. Blood began to trickle in thin lines from either their noses or their ears, as they stubbornly stood their ground, not knowing what this obvious houdou was doing, but also, not prepared to let such prize slaves go.

Eventually, however, all six buccaneers collapsed where they stood, twitching, deaf wretches to a man.

Smokestack removed his fingers from his ears when May gestured for him to do so, and looked over the railing at the longboats. Both boats were safe, but bobbing against the _Sea Cock_, due to the chains of the davits still holding them.

"Come on, May," he told her. "We're gonna have to climb down."

May risked a look down and regretted it.

"I don't know," she said, trying to sound thoughtful and fighting her writhing stomach. Unless she had sufficient cover and a megaphone, she knew she couldn't keep up her literary assault before a lucky shot fell her.

She looked down over the boats again, so far away from her now. No way that she could simply jump down. The impact, either on the water, or on the boats and passengers would be probably be fatal.

Without warning, Smokestack grabbed May up by her collar like a kitten, and positioned her on his back.

"Hang on!" he yelled, as another wave of pirates came from rear hatches of the ship, brandishing pistols in a charge.

He gathered his broad, six-foot, five-inch frame, and leaped out to grab hold of one of the davit tethers. The chain arrested his forward momentum, causing his body to swing out, with a terrified May clutching the back of his uniform for dear life.

As bullets drilled the air around them, Smokestack gave a sigh of resignation for what he had to do, and loosened his iron grip on the chain, letting gravity accelerate the duo away from the dangerous deck.

As May fought to keep from puking, her savior grunted in pain, as the friction of link after link literally set his palms on fire.

The two of them landed unstedily onto the bow of one of the longboats. May scrambled on board, while tortured Smokestack plunged his ravaged hands into the cold sea.

The resultant cooling created a cloud of steam that rose and grew denser and denser, obscuring both boats and most of the _Sea Cock's _waterline. The pirates above couldn't draw a bead on anything in the fog and decided against wasting ammunition.

As promised, Dewey had a tight spot for May waiting when she plopped her tired self down.

"Release lines," ordered Smokestack.

With the longboats free of their tethers and their pontoon steam engines stoked with coal fed by conveyer belts that ran through the hollow floats via a hand crank built in the boat's side, the craft surged smoothly out of the cloud and increased speed.

Passengers ducked their heads to avoid the occasional potshot that whizzed at them when they left their cover. Soon afterwards, the firing ceased and they continued their escape without incident.

One of the women found a spyglass in a small provisions chest and used it to scan the dark seas, looking for a safe place to head towards.

Her searching stopped in surprise when she saw, departing a few miles out, the gas-lit silhouette of the _Plymouth_, heading due south.

"It's the _Plymouth_!" she yelled over the loud chop of the ocean and the steam engines' efforts. "We can catch up with it!"

With the collective hope that they would be rescued, the passengers of one boat threw a rope to the crew of the other, who tied it to their bow. With the other end of the line attached to the first boat's stern, the first set a course towards the horizon, guiding the second.

It was then that they heard the claxons going off in the night. _Sea Cock _was on red alert.

Clad only in his blanket, Petit-Crockaire and his shirtless guard burst open the door leading to the main deck. More pirates had already arrived on deck and were too worked up to question why their captain was wrapped up in just a blanket.

"They spurned our hospitality, mes amis!" he yelled in fury. "Sink zem, now! I want zem going down faster zan an ugly girl on a mercy date!"

"Aye, aye!" his men cried in bloodlust.

The guard, emboldened by his comrades, stepped away from his captain, preparing to assist in the order, but was then suddenly stopped by the captain's gentle hand on his shoulder.

With an understanding look in the guard's eyes, the two returned to the captain's quarters and closed the door.

Not caring anymore if their shots reached the mark, pirates crowded the railings and began stitching the waters around the fugitives with lethal slugs, as the _Sea Cock_ came about and steamed after the two longboats.

The fugitives, in turn, cranked more coal into the small engines and kept a desperate bearing with the Plymouth, fighting against the ocean chop and their own mounting panic.

May kept her eyes glued to the _Sea Cock _and judging her distance from them. It was depressingly closing.

"I hope we're far enough away from them!" May called out to Dewey.

"I hope so, too, 'cause we're _tryin'_, cher!"

"Good! That way, they can use their cannons!" she said matter-of-factly.

"_What?"_

The gunnery crews, startled into action from the gunplay and prisoner escape, jumped out of their hammocks, hastily got dressed, and ran to their cannons to prepare them for firing.

"Hey, my feet feel funny," complained one of the gunners.

"Mine, too," chimed in another. "I wonder if we got sand in our shoes from the last time we went to the beach."

"Focus, people!" ordered their chief gunner.

Dismissing the shoes for a moment, the gunners did indeed focus back on their job and prepared to light the cannons' fuses with their wicks.

As they lit the fuses, the customary amount of sparks fell to the floor. To the gun crews, in any other engagement, this would have been paid as much attention as seeing dust fly from an old table.

But now, a fiery smoke was seen coming from below the cannons. In a look of supreme terror, the gunners looked down to see a thin coating of smoldering gunpowder spread all over the floor leading back to the barrels.

In desperation, the gunners kicked and stomped at the low-creeping flames and smoke to put them out, as the first cannonade launched at the escapees.

Great towers of ocean blasted around the longboats as, fortunately, the gunners didn't have time to aim while trying to put out the lit gunpowder around them.

As seawater from the misfired shot and shell rained all over the boat people, Dewey asked May, with fear-tinged sarcasm, "Well? Is this what you wanted?"

May, crossing her fingers, gave him a worried look and yelled over the shooting, "Not yet!" The pursuing ship was gaining on them, bringing their cannons into a better position to fire.

Standing on the forward deck of the _Plymouth_, the captain, some of the bridge crew, and some of the more adventurous passengers could hear the muffled pops of cannon fire off in the distance.

As one, people trained eyes and spyglasses at the seemingly one-sided battle, out beyond.

In the bowels of the _Sea Cock_, the gunners were still stomping away at the dangerous ignition creeping all around them.

One of the gunners, the first to notice something in his shoes, kept tramping on the burning powder, until what he feared most, happened, but not in a way that was expected.

His shoes touched a low flame he tried to corner, sparked and sputtered into a smoky fire all their own, and then exploded.

Falling to the gritty floor with bloody stumps where his ankles terminated, he sat completely incapacitated with a look of shock frozen on his gasping face.

His fellow sailors looked around the deck in confusion for an unseen attacker while they continued to fight the lit powder with their feet.

It wasn't until they all started looking back at the victim's injuries that they pieced it all together, and realized, too late, that they, too, were caught in the same insidious trap, as, one by one, pairs of gunpowder filled shoes ignited, and then exploded, leaving crippled men howling in agony, and setting off a blazing chain reaction that fed and raced towards its source, the still full barrels of gunpowder.

The acrid flash was the last thing the men saw.

A sudden, heart-stopping thunderclap flattened every man, woman, and child on both boats, as a shockwave was released from the most fearsome explosion any of them had ever witnessed.

With a detonation that could be seen from the _Plymouth_, the blast blew the vessel apart amidships like a balloon, destroying decks and killing criminal personnel in a shrapnel and pressure wave hailstorm.

As a dazed May had fervently hoped, the gunners, in trying to stop her trap, only made the sabotage worse, and kept them too busy to blow her people out of the waters, until it was too late.

The two ruined halves of ship bobbed, rolled over like dying things, and quickly took on water. Stubborn fires, rising, black and choking smoke, and pressurized, white-gray steam from the ship's once hearty boiler, bled out into the moonlight sky in a captivating display of naval destruction.

From their position in the sea, the recovering escapees could watch in awe and gratitude, as the reviled pirate ship began to sink explosively into the sea.

They could make a run for the _Plymouth _in a moment, they decided, as they navigated through the still floating flotsam and body parts. Savoring a victory like this one was rare.

So this was what taking control of one's destiny felt like.

As the escapees cheered with blood trickling from ruptured eardrums, May gave Dewey a devil-may-care smile.

"_That's_ what I wanted," she said satisfied, but unable to hear herself.

"What?" Dewey asked.

"What?" May asked back.

"What?" he asked in frustration, again, which prompted a cacophony of "What's?" and "Huh's?" from the people on both boats.

After a few more minutes of savoring, and watching the once proud cock figurehead saucily defying the waves one last time, as it finally sank into the vortex made by the ship's own weight, the passengers of the two longboats angled their craft away from the debris-choked area and the oncoming sharks.

As the two vessels chugged southward, moving further and further from the wreck of the _Sea Cock_, their collective mood brightened, as the silhouette of the _Plymouth_ grew gradually broader and larger, its surface details and gas lights becoming more clearly seen, as the steamer was ponderously coming about.

May breathed relievedly for the oncoming rescue. As true as the longboats were, there was no way their tiny engines were going to take them all the way to New York. There was far more road ahead of her, and she was on a deadline.


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter _Eight-_

May finished the last of bit of polishing in her assigned stateroom seconds before the ship's whistle blew.

"We're here!" she cheered as she bounced over to the cabin's porthole and scanned the landscape.

She had never seen Manhattan Island before and the sight before her was tantalizing. The mid-day Hudson River was crowded with steamers and traditional ships of sail, but the _Plymouth_ maneuvered herself handily in those waters. The warehouses, busy harbors, and other riverside buildings of the unfamiliar skyline charged her curiosity like nothing else.

And more importantly, it meant she was one step closer to being with her family and a chance to help them escape.

She pulled her face from the porthole and turned to the occupied bed she ran past on her way to the window.

"Will you need anything else?" May asked to the nude couple that was concealed under their blanket.

"No, no, my dear," the man said. "You've been most helpful for us."

"Yes," said his wife. "You don't know how hard it is to have relations when you can only do it while others watch. You were able to do that _and_ keep the place tidy at the same time. Thank you for your professionalism."

"No problem," May told them modestly. "I'm just glad the captain decided to drop the trespassing charges after we gotten rid of those pirates, if we worked the rest of the passage off."

May went to the front door, wiped the doorknob with her dusting rag and opened it, telling them, "Well, it looks like I made it to where _I_ needed to go. You two have a great time in New York. I'll see you around."

When May left, the husband thought for a moment, then said to his wife, "Honey, how would you feel about the Brooklyn Bridge during rush hour?"

His wife giggled with anticipation.

After _Plymouth_ settled into her massive berth and the passengers disembarked, ready to regale friends, if not total strangers, with their harrowing tale of piracy on the high seas, May, Dewey and the entirety of the Ebots disembarked while the ship was being refueled, restocked, and given everything else that was necessary for the preparation of the vessel's next voyage out while in her home port.

Governor led the way along the docks of Lower Manhattan, visiting dock after dock, and studying one moored ship after another, until he finally slowed down and stopped at a dock berthing a large steamer that was beginning to show its age in rust spots and a few patches of barnacles on its otherwise still seaworthy hull.

"Here she is, people," he told his throng. "Alexis, out of Canada. She was supposed to pick you all up when we docked in Boston, but she was late, so we had to reschedule."

A middle-aged woman dressed in a pea coat and cap leaned over the railing of the deck of her ship, looked down, and gave a jaunty wave at the old man.

"Hey, Alexis! What's the news about your baby?" he asked her.

"It'll be a while, Governor," she said while holding her belly lovingly. "But, you know what it's like, eh? You come into town for shore leave, you wind up three sheets to the wind, and the next thing you know, someone's boarding you from the aft end, loadin' his personal cargo into your hold, and you end up with a new addition to the crew. Anywho, is this the new cargo?

"Yep. I'll have them ready to board in a few minutes."

"Alright, now."

As the captain left to attend to her duties, Governor faced the crowd again. "Alright, everybody, it's time to get on board. She'll be shoving off soon for Heaven."

"What's going on, Governor?" May asked, as people began marching past her and going up the gangway.

"Don't worry," he replied. "We do this kind of thing all the time, both here and in Boston, when the _Alexis'_ men are on shore leave. Problem is, because she's behind schedule, I'm not sure the men will have much time for fun. With sex."

May shrugged at the news and craned her neck to look for Dewey in the embarking group. "Have you seen Dewey anywhere? We'll have to go soon."

Governor nodded off to the side with a wry smile. "I think I see him there. Looks like he wanted to see the girls off."

Near the gangway, May could see Dewey chatting it up with the triplets. She calmly walked over to them.

"May!" One said with some surprise, honestly not expecting her to be around. "Oh, hi! We were just saying our good-byes to Ball Bearing here, and saying that if he was ever in the Quebec area, he should look us up."

"Oh, really? That _would_ be nice," gushed May with hidden venom.

May turned to Dewey, giving him a calm yet dangerous stare as she spoke pleasantly to him. "Wouldn't that be nice, Ball _Tearing_?"

Dewey caught the threat of the supposed misnaming and meekly chuckled, playing along with her. "Yes, dear. That would be mighty fine, ma'am."

"Oh, good." She turned back to the sisters, smiling agreeably.

"Girls, I just wanted to say before you shoved off, that I know you didn't really mean all the nasty things you did. It was all for fun, that's all. I completely understand."

The triplets gave confused glances at each other. Didn't this runt know that they really _did_ mean all of those things, and if she were shipping off with them, they'd do even more?

With an inward shrug, they let the matter drop. It wasn't their fault if the girl was that naïve.

"Why, thank you, Fifth Wheel," One said with an almost visible smirk after using her insulting machine name. "You're right. It _was_ all just for fun, and let me say that we're really gonna miss you on our way to Canada. Where no one gets hung, or beaten within an inch of their lives. Where we don't have to worry about being sold off or raped, or our families torn apart."

She stopped her dissertation when she saw that it had the desired effect: May, looking rather disquieted by what she may still endure.

"Sucks to be you," One said matter-of-factly, giving May a tight, false smile.

Before anyone could reply to the statement, the ship's whistle boomed from above, putting a quicker pace in the boarders' steps.

"Hey, you guys better go before you miss your boat," May chided them good-naturedly, before giving each one of them a wholly unexpected hug good-bye.

As she left them, One leaned in close to her siblings.

"I really thought that pirate would really settle her ass. I guess she got lucky, or something, huh?" On her back, unbeknownst to her, was a note that read, _"Threesomes 'R' Us." _

"Yeah, well, we won't have to see her again." Two said. "But I am gonna miss that fine guy she was with." Behind her back was a note that read, _"Willing To Travel." _

"That's for sure. But cheer up, girls! We'll _all_ find the right man to use, sooner or later." Three told them. Dorsally, the note, _"Ask About Our Group Rates." _was proudly displayed without her knowledge.

Buoyed by that notion, the girls happily ran scenarios in their scheming minds of group man-hunting and man-eating in the Canadian wilderness.

By the time May and Dewey reached Governor, Smokestack and Lens, some distance from the gangway, a crowd of men, comprised of white crewers from the _Alexis_, began to form around the dismayed triplets as they were preparing to board.

"What's going on up there?" Lens asked the two kids.

May shrugged and said, "I don't know, but I think the girls and I really bonded back there."

She then turned to Governor and told him, "Oh, and I wouldn't worry about the crew not having any fun this time out."

Puzzled, Governor led the remaining three people away from the dock. Before catching up with them, May spared the triplets a parting wave.

"Bye-bye, skanks. It's been real. If it's a girl, name her after me," she said, smiling beatifically.

The small group continued to stroll southerly past the busy wharfs and through their neighborhoods for most of an hour or two, finding themselves, at last, in the sedate setting of Battery Park, walking along its broad riverside promenade.

Despite the tight, almost mathematical arrangement of the city, May found the sightseeing enjoyable. The variety and count of ships that came to rest or sail by, as well as the sheer number of people, both native and immigrant, that worked, yelled, talked and lived in such a cosmopolitan place, told her that New York City was a city that was going places and doing things, a city of the future, and one that made Quahog look positively sleepy in comparison.

Of all the buildings that she gawked at like a tourist, she locked her sights on one whose size and unique architecture made it stand out against the sedate setting of Battery Park.

The West Battery was a huge, circular fort that was built to defend New York during the War of 1812, but never saw any action. Over the years, it had acquired new names, among them, Castle Garden, along with its new role as a civic entertainment center. Now it was a promenade, a beer garden and restaurant, exhibition hall, opera house, and theater.

And a station for catching a coach out of the city, May hoped as she followed the rest of the group to the building's periphery. Yet, as she approached the building, something struck her as odd about the boarding of all of those workers on another boat, so soon after leaving the first.

"Why did you say that they were going to Heaven?" May asked the old man.

"What?"

"Back at the ship, you said that the other workers were going to Heaven," she expounded. "What did you mean by that?"

Governor gave a chuckle. "Because they are. Keep it under your hat, but Heaven is just code for Canada."

"Canada?" May mused. Then lightning struck and she stopped walking.

"Wait a minute. Code? All of those workers, they weren't just leaving, they're _escaping_. You're helping them out. Oh, my God! You're one of them, aren't you? You're a-"

Governor's speed belied his age as he reached out and placed a calloused hand firmly over her mouth. The move startled May for a moment, then she relaxed with understanding. Such swiftness and secrecy could only come from one of …them.

Dewey was confused by the scene, and asked May, after she calmed down, "What's goin' on, cher?"

May whispered to Dewey, but was so excited, she found it hard to speak without her voice trembling.

"He's one of _them_, Dewey. He's an Operator. He's a Conductor for The Underground Railroad!"

Dewey's power of speech was stripped away and his extremities grew icy. He stood face to face with the very thing he had worked against. He could only imagine the unholy ratio his past brought about: for every soul saved by people like Governor, he knew he damned two.

Was this meeting a divine event? Was God finally delivering His punishment upon him? Part of him thought so, even hoped so. Living with the guilt was bad enough, but waiting for a punishment he knew was due, but couldn't anticipate, was equally torturous.

May looked into Dewey's face, mistaking his guilty fear for awe. "I know! I can't believe it, either. I wonder if Smokestack and Lens are Conductors, too."

Her answer came in the form of a soft shushing from Lens, partially concealing a proud smile.

Governor motioned for the two of them to follow the adults around the complex to its rear, which gave a commanding view of the river and the naval traffic.

Just up the way of the erstwhile fort was a small dock that held a waiting boat, a dinky, weather-beaten steamboat with a tattered quilt draped over the side of the bow, that was crewed by a single, anonymous man, and used as a ferry to Jersey City, New Jersey on the other side of the Hudson.

Governor led them onto the boat, and without a word of greeting from either of them, the captain went into the wheelhouse and piloted his puttering boat away from Manhattan.

"But why let us know who you are?" asked May, leaning against the side of the deck. "We won't breathe a word of this to anyone, but why take a chance anyway? And why are we here?"

"Simply put, because we need people like you two," he explained. "We're stuck in a class war. The Haves against The Have-Nots, and we're as Have-Not as it gets. It's all about survival and the freedom to live and make your own destiny in this world."

"Our skin is not our sin," Smokestack added. "But we don't have to time to wait until white people wake up one morning and come to their senses. We have to act to save our people now."

"And even though I told you two not to mess with those minstrels on the ship, we liked how you two handled yourselves with them," said Lens.

"As well as how you save us all from those French pirates," Governor told May directly. "You really thought on your feet, and we need Conductors with that kind of spirit."

May couldn't do anything but smile uncomfortably while her cheeks and ears burned. Praise _this_ high was unheard of in her life, and she was ill equipped to handle it. Her humility was spared from more commendation when Governor saw how modest she was in hearing it. That kind of response made his decision to choose her all the clearer. Ego didn't rule her.

May perked up in thought and turned to Dewey excitedly.

"Wow! Think about it, Dewey. Someday, we might get to work alongside other Conductors, or maybe even become Stationmasters!"

"Who knows?" Governor added. "You might even get to see the greatest Conductor in the organization, H, herself."

May sighed with thoughts of hero-worship and adventure, as she imagined what their lives would be working for the shadowy organization of _The Railroad_…

_The hidden, lamp-lit lobby of the Headquarters of The Underground Railroad was a constant mass of movement and activity. Men and women bustled about with paperwork, new disguises, or newer, concealable equipment. _

_The wide chamber branched off into corridors that held map rooms, testing facilities, dormitories, commissaries, dressing rooms, a central mail facility, and other places that helped the members serve the cause._

_May and Dewey, gawking at the sights, followed Governor up a winding staircase to an office that dominated a balcony that overlooked everything in the lobby below._

_Opening the door, they saw an elderly black woman sitting expectantly behind a large desk. On the desk was a name plaque that simply read, "H"._

"_May, Dewey," she said to them as they stood in awe of such a woman. "Let's put it on."_

_The two teens were perplexed by the request._

"_Put what on?" they both asked._

_With a faint smile, Harriet Tubman, or Aitch, said, "The best suit you'll ever wear…"_

_The duo was then brought to one of the agency's dressing rooms, where they picked among the patched-up, cast-off clothes field slaves and the poor would wear._

"_You'll dress only in attire specially sanctioned by Railroad Special Services," Aitch instructed._

_May and Dewey were then each given a card that had their cover name written on it. May's said, "Rufus", and Dewey's said, "Sissy". They promptly exchanged them with each other. _

"_You'll conform to the identities we give you. Meet where we tell you, help who we tell you."_

_In a distant city, on assignment, the two teens, dressed as field hands, were seen by a white man, who then scratched his head. In his eyes, they both look vaguely identical._

"_You'll not stand out in any way, because your entire image has been stereotyped to leave no lasting memory with any white folks you encounter. You're property, recognizable only as cheap slave labor and dismissed just as quickly. Socially, you don't exist; _even_ when you were born." _

"_Liberty is your name. Defiance, your native tongue. You're no longer screwed by the System. You're above the System. Over it. Beyond it. _

"_We're "them." We're "they."" _

"_We are the Men who're Black."_

_In the lobby, May and Dewey took the time to check the feel and fit of their new clothes._

_May wore a ruffled, high-collared, black and violet satin dress with a feathered, broad brimmed hat set on a coquettish angle, and Dewey sported a tailored black suit that set off the gold pocket watch he casually wore. _

_Slipping on a pair of extremely opaque, smoked glass spectacles in place of her needed ones, May affected a self-satisfied pose._

"_You know the difference between you and me?" she asked Dewey, cockily, and then asked again in a more worrying tone. "Seriously, do you know? 'Cause I can't see a damn thing out of these glasses!"  
><em>

"That would be so cool," May sighed happily. "Maybe after I help get my family back, I'll think about asking them if I can join."

"Huh?" asked Governor, taken aback.

"Yeah, I just can't up and join, just like that. I have to rescue my family from Virginia first. That's why me and Dewey stowed away."

"Oh!" Governor said, understanding. "I thought you two were running away from your folks and eloping, or something." He gave the swiftest of glances to his two compatriots. They understood.

"Well, that does explain a lot. I guess we can't stop you from looking for your folks, can we? That's just as important as what _we_ do," Governor conceded as he pulled out of his coat pocket something that looked like a miniature street lamp, a long, metal tube with a tiny lantern sitting on top. He held it up to the teens' faces.

While neither youngster noticed Lens and Smokestack coming up from behind, Governor flicked a switch on the gripped base of the tube, igniting a small portion of flash powder in the center of the lantern. The kids looked confused.

"What's that?" May asked.

However bright the light shined from the contraption in Governor's hand, it was easily outshone by the world around the teens, as the sunlight grew brighter, sounds grew dimmer, and their muscles grew more and more relaxed, until their bodies eventually crashed to the deck in a heavily drugged stupor.

"A distraction," Governor replied regretfully as he stood over their bodies, a soporific dart in both of their backs.

May awoke to the feeling of someone nudging her, and the hoots of ship whistles. Slowly sitting up, she saw Dewey kneeling by her, rubbing the sleep from his own eyes and trying to reorient himself with the world.

"Wake up, May. We're at Grandma's" he quipped with a groan.

It was damp and hard, wherever they were, and May could smell the faint scent of beer, urine and low tide.

Forcing herself into full consciousness, she idly wondered if she dreamt those last moments with Governor. With a cautious look around, she saw that they awoke in an alley.

Dewey cautiously walked to the mouth of the passage and peeked out. Outside, and as far as he could see, was what he saw before the boat trip, wharfs, harbors and ships coming and going along the Hudson.

He walked further out and looked across the river from between two small, berthed ships. On the coastal side of the landmass beyond, there were more harbors, larger buildings and taller spires, and there at the farthest end, was the strange round building he remembered seeing before he and May blacked out. Then he knew.

Dewey went back into the alley and knelt beside her. "I think we're in Jersey, cher," he reported.

"Good. We're on our way, then," she said. "We just need to find a way out of New Jersey."

Then she noticed two things. The first was a note pinned to her dress. She removed the letter while Dewey watched her.

"What's it say?" he asked.

"We'll be here when you're ready," she read. Then she saw something on the other side of the paper in the daylight. Turning it over, she saw a crude map drawn on the back, with an X marking a spot that read, "You Are Here," and an arrow pointing southwesterly to the far side of the paper, which read, "To Philly and beyond."

"It's a map leading out of the city," May said. Then she remembered the second thing she noticed. "And what am I _sitting_ on?"

Whatever it was, it was small, rotund and uncomfortably hard.

May leaned over and felt around for the object that was under her. It was a tiny bag. Picking it up, she opened it and gasped.

"Dewey! Silver Dollars!" she whispered. "There must be about ten dollars in here! They must have given this to us to help us on our way."

"Then all we need now is a compass," Dewey said exuberantly. "And a horse."

"A horse?"

"Yep. We can't possibly get where we need to get to without one. It'll take too long," he said as a matter of fact. "Hmm, let's see. Best place to get one would be at a livery. We got money, now. We should able to afford one."

"Sounds good," said May as she stood up and brushed herself off.

Because Jersey City was a major port of entry for the state, it also catered to the influx of passenger ships that docked there, as well, so, it didn't take too long to find a decent livery stable in the surrounding neighborhoods near the port.

The whole affair was as small business as it got, a diminutive stable and harness room, with a lean-to for wagons on the side of the building, topped with a combination storage room and office upstairs.

Adorned with the sign over the stable entrance that read, "Livery Stable. Proprietor Roderick Polk," May and Dewey hoped that the owner was a reasonable man, because neither one was much of a negotiator, and, not knowing their way around town, couldn't afford to waste time looking for others, unless forced.

Reaching the office via the building's outdoor staircase, they entered from its elevated landing. Inside, a balding white man, sitting by his table covered with receipts, was holding a large, folded sheet of paper, which displayed a full picture of a horse in profile which he stared at lustfully.

At the far end of the room, a young clerk was opening a bag of feed and was preparing to lift and dump the bag into the feed chute in the corner. On the wall behind him, was a poster of the various costs to buy, hire or sell horses, as well as their housing expense. All were well below the ten-dollar range.

Seeing that they were black, however, cooled the man's temperament, and his practiced salesman demeanor died stillborn.

"What do you want?" he asked with rude indifference, putting the horse poster down on the desk. "You buyin' or rentin'?"

"Rent, please," Dewey said, after it was decided that a man making the transaction might smooth things with the conservative owner.

"Rentals are ten dollars a day. No exceptions." He hadn't even batted an eye.

Whatever role May was to play during the transaction, she decided not to play it. Instead, she piped up and pointed at the sales paper by the clerk, saying, "But it says there that they're _two_ dollars a day."

The owner glared at Dewey. "Better tell Little Miss College there that _I _said it's ten dollars. If you got it, let's see it. If not, keep walkin'."

With a sad glance to May, Dewey shook his head. There was nothing to be gained by trying to force the issue with the narrow-minded man, and time was of the essence.

"That's alright, Dewey," May placated. "We'll just find another one. I think I saw that one place, National. We'll just go there. Go like a pro."

The owner snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that, girly. Never saw one of you people with more than ten _cents_ in your pocket, much less ten dollars. Now listen to my callous laughter as you walk away."

As they walked out of the office to the sound of callous laughter, they could also hear someone singing below. They couldn't recognize the song, but the baritone voice was lovely, and so, just to get their minds off of the proprietor, they decided to investigate.

Reaching the entrance of the stables, they were suddenly approached by Patrick Steward, holding a check.

"On behalf of National, we thank you for your ringing endorsement. Please, accept this check with our undying gratitude." he said, giving the check to May, and then walking off.

"Who was that?" asked Dewey.

"Nevermind," May answered back.

Moving silently into the dim stable, they looked inside to marvel at a beautiful white horse, singing an aria in his stall.

They favored the animal a quiet applause once he finished, and the singer bowed his head humbly, happy to have an audience.

"Thank you, thank you," the horse replied in a clipped English accent. "That was, of course, _La donna e mobile, _from Guiseppi Verdi's _Rigoletto_. If you like, I could sing something from Mozart's _The Magic Flute _that I rather like."

As much as it might have been interesting to see and hear a gelding singing opera, May had to politely stop him from going further.

"Sorry to take up your time," she said. "Lovely singing voice, by the way, but, I was wondering if you would be willing to take us, at least part of the way, to Lynchtree, Virginia?"

The horse cocked his large head and pondered it for a moment, then said. "Hmm, yes. Fairly close to Killingsberg and Stoolbend. I pull a coach on occasion, and there's a stage there that's well known for its blend of locally grown feed. Most exquisite."

Dewey immediately perked up. "Hot damn! You said, "yes!" Does that mean you'll take us, brah?"

The animal stood his full height with indignity. "Absolutely not! I said, "yes", to indicate that I understood where the young woman wanted me to go. _Not_ that I would go there. I trust you tried to come to some sort of agreement with the so-called Horse Whisperer upstairs?"

"He slammed the door in our faces," May told him. "Before he slammed the _door_ in our faces," May said.

"Well, that's settled, then."

"Aww, c'mon, brah!" Dewey begged. "We really need to get there as soon as we can. Her family needs us bad! They could die if we don't get there in time. Please. You said that you're a coach horse, you're fast and I bet you know every shortcut there is."

The quadruped snorted snobbishly. "That _is_ true, and a testament to your obvious good taste that you both would choose me for this otherwise highly illegal and foolhardy venture."

"Then come with us. We need your help, please," May entreated.

"Human, you do understand that I'm worth _far_ more than you, and cannot be missed," the horse condescended to her.

"I'm fairly aware," May conceded coolly.

The horse raised his head proudly. "My forebears pulled the coaches of royalty and bore generals on their backs. I am one of the swiftest animal on foot, and I know every road, pass, and highway in this great land. It's my seniority that has granted me a place of honor in the rear of every team I've been attached to, so that I may take my ease, which is the privilege of my station there."

"I'm happy for you," she said.

"So you must come to the conclusion that I cannot take you anywhere. That would be tantamount-"

"Hold on!" May suddenly shouted, quickly scribbling the word _tantamount_ on a produced piece of paper. "Mom always said that if I ever ran into a word I didn't know yet, to jot it down, so I can learn it later. Wouldn't be much of a writer if I didn't. O-u-n-t?"

"O-u-n-t," the horse confirmed dryly.

"Okay, go on."

"As I was saying," the horse continued, trying to compose himself from the interruption. "It would be tantamount to theft of private property, something I'm sure you are well aware of."

That comment gave May pause. "Wait a minute. What are you saying? That I'm private property, or that I steal other _people's_?

The horse, sighing in annoyance, said, "I'm sure you can figure that out for yourself, Human. In the meantime, kindly leave me in peace."

May began to feel tired and depressed. She knew it wasn't going to be easy, but having to joust with this stuffy nag, after just dealing with his keeper, truly opened the vista of vexations to come, in her mind's eye. There was just no time for this.

"Alright, horse, I understand," she said evenly. "We can't make you take us anywhere. Well, actually, we probably could, but then you'd make such a fuss, we'd get caught and that wouldn't help us."

"Most wise of you."

"I will say this, though. They put an old horse like you in the back of your team. _For now_. I hope you serve your owners well, because it looks like there's no other place in that team to go but _out_, and that fancy heritage of yours won't matter if you've got nothing else to offer anyone. And _that's_ something I'm very well aware of."

"Meaning what?" the horse asked indignantly.

"_Meaning_," Dewey chimed in. "That you should help people when you're at your highest, brah, 'cause you never know when you'll find yourself at your lowest. Thanks for your time."

May and Dewey then quietly snuck back out of the stables, leaving the horse to his thoughts among his equine brethren. He crossly knelt down in his stall for a nap.

"Humph! My lowest…" he scoffed bitterly. He then heard the creaking of the outside stairs, but decided not to stand to investigate. He knew who it was and, so, didn't react to it.

The livery company's boss and his assistant casually entered the stable, stopping when they were near the horse's stall.

"Did you hear anything in here, Coleman?" the bald owner asked, after lighting a pipe and taking a deep draw from it.

"No, sir," said the clerk. "Quiet as a preacher's bedroom. So did you make a decision about what to do with Vincent?"

"Yep. I'm getting complaints from the customers. He's starting to lag behind the faster horses in his teams. I know he comes from good stock and all, but he cost me a lot of money in that gentlemen's bet I had last week with that other livery, and all of the farms I contacted already have enough breeding studs. So, tomorrow, we'll just take him over to the slaughterhouse and see how much we can get for him."

"Good thinking, boss," Coleman chuckled obsequiously. "With all his good breeding, he should, at least, taste good.

As they walked out of the stables and back to work upstairs, the unnoticed horse on the floor of the stall with the word, "Vincent" painted on the door, shivered in quiet terror, his dark eyes growing as wide as a working man's fists in shock of the easy disregard his owner had of his pedigree and his years of service, not to mention the casual regard they had for his impeding death and later consumption.

Some time later, after a less contentious visit to a shop on the edge of town, to buy food and supplies, the duo continued in a southerly direction on a highway leading out of the city.

Although slave catchers had no legal business harassing ex-slaves in New Jersey, the two teens knew that money could blind one to the law, as much as hate could.

The two eventually stopped by a crossroad to catch their breath and get their bearings.

"What does the compass say, cher?"

May held up the device, waited for it to take a reading, then said, "We're...heading too far west." She pointed off to another road. "If we keep heading in _this_ direction, we'll be good."

"All right, then," he said. "We'll take a rest now, and then press on while we got daylight."

"I just wish it wouldn't take so long getting there," May fretted. "It'll take days to reach Virginia, and we've got no idea how much of a head start that bounty hunter has on us."

"Actually, we got the drop on _him_, cher."

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you think I wanted us to catch that steamer?" Dewey asked smugly. "I knew a boat would get us here a lot faster than a train would. _We_ got the head start, cher, not him. We'll make it. Don't you worry none."

The sudden sound of something crashing and moving in haste through the underbrush of the forests on either side of the highway, made the duo freeze in place and hold their breath for fear of detection.

"May, your knife," Dewey whispered to her, as he pulled out his sap and hid it behind his back in anticipation of a bounty man's ambush.

May raised her skirt and slipped the knife free of its tied-down sheath, nervously bringing it up into a ready and defensive position.

She looked into the green tranquility of the woods to help give her momentary peace of mind, and wondered if she would die here, as the sounds grew distressing louder and more rushed, like someone discovering them at the last minute, and closing in before they made a break for it.

They automatically stood side-to-side, mentally preparing for the coming capture, when the muffled sound of a trot coming to a crashing, clumsy end was heard ahead of them.

With a muscular burst of white bounding out of the dark green surroundings, the teens saw a white, talking, and singing coach horse, breathing hard and awkwardly walking up to them.

"What are you doing here, brah? I thought you didn't want to help me an' cher," Dewey said, absolutely delighted that it was him and not a bounty man.

The gelding, composing himself, turned to face May. "Yes, well. I wanted to say that I thought about what you said very carefully, and you made for a most bracing argument. Your words belie your station."

May, ignoring the possibly backhanded compliment with almost mock-gentility, replied, "Likewise."

The horse, realizing his last words were probably insulting, as well as ironic, since he, with a command for the English language, was now seen as useless horse flesh, embarrassingly conceded.

"Quite. In any event, I would like to offer you my speed and area knowledge in your endeavor to rescue your parents, if I may."

May, still in mock-gentility mode, told him, "We would be ever so delighted to have your company in our fellowship, Mister, uh…" She looked at him, expecting him to tell her his name.

The horse said sheepishly, "Vincent. My name is…Vincent."

May, softening and much more cordial now, smiled and greeted him, "Hi there, Vincent. My name is May, and this here is Deuteronomy."

Dewey, smiling, as well, said, "Call me Dewey, brah. Good to know you." He patted and stroked his neck comfortingly, then they both clambered onto his back; Dewey first, and then May holding him from behind.

"So tell me," May smugly asked Vincent. "What was it that really changed your mind? My eloquent speech, or the fact that they were fixing to cut you up into bait?"

Vincent gave a defeated sigh. "You truly have the gift of imagery."

May held up her head proudly. "I'm gonna be a _writer_, y'know!"

Taking May's new compass bearing due southwest, Dewey steered Vincent along the well-worn path that led away from the center of the intersection, and they soon rode off.


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter _Nine-_

Using Vincent's still vaunted speed and his invaluable encyclopedic knowledge of the fastest coach routes and shortcuts, travel time was reduced significantly, so that in the space of over three weeks, May and Dewey had crossed the length of two states in a breakneck pace.

Freedom to travel openly was also a major factor in their favor. New Jersey, being a free state, allowed more or less untroubled passage through it. After crossing by ferry into Delaware, however, things became more complicated, and their travel protocols changed.

By following the conventions of most fugitives; staying in the forests by day, traveling roads by night, and keeping out of sight of most towns and villages on the way due south, they were better able to avoid possible slave catchers.

In spite of this, once they entered towns and villages, they could feel the social pressures bear down on them. More questions were asked of them, fewer amenities were open to them, and, while passing through public areas, more and more eyes were upon them.

A situation that grew upon their passing through Maryland, culminating into the harried and desperate exodus that the two teens and their horse were engaged in.

The town they left was a good two miles distant and Vincent managed to keep his lead against the three men riding hard to overtake them.

The clearing that marked the town's entrance gave way to a forested road that seemed endless.

Vincent's two passengers ducked instinctively at the booming sounds of gunfire behind them, as it seemed they had ever since they left town.

Dewey kept scanning ahead for somewhere to turn, or something to put as a barricade between them and their pursuers, but nothing could be offered, so he kicked his heels into Vincent again, hoping to inspire more speed out of him.

"I think we past a sign back there that said we left Maryland," May informed the both of them.

"Thank God! Did you see that lynch mob?" Dewey asked.

"Yeah, and those were the _women_!" May quipped. "That place is worse than Delaware!"

"The gall of some people!" Vincent huffed as he entered the conversation. "Here I am, trying to have a civil discussion on the films of Terence Hill, and all of the sudden, this! There's simply no reason at all for all of this ill will!"

A closer boom from small arms fire scared away any understanding Dewey might have had for Vincent's complaint.

"May, will you tell this fool that they don't _need_ to have a reason?"

Vincent bristled, despite their dangerous circumstances. "My good sir, I am not a foal. How can you say that you're good with horses, if you can't even tell how old I am?"

"_Fool_, not foal! And I _am_ good with horses, just not good at getting 'em out of fights with armchair film critics!"

May took a break from hearing the two of them bicker to look behind her. The three men were now just yards away.

"Hey, Siskle and Ebert!" she said over the noise of the chase. "They're gaining!

"And I'm…I'm starting to tire, friends!" Vincent wheezed as he grimaced in sheer concentration to maintain his lagging lead.

As Dewey looked down at Vincent in concern, May looked up ahead and saw something, a side road, that she hoped would buy them some time.

"I've got an idea! Take that next turn up ahead and drop me off!" she told them.

Dewey was flummoxed. "What? They'll kill you, girl!"

"Just do it! I'll make it!" she insisted. "And keep riding up the road a little while after I get off, okay?"

"Alright!" He fretted on the inside, but maybe she did have a plan. He just wished _he_ were the one implementing it for her safety.

Dewey yanked the reins and steered Vincent hard to the left and into May's path, a long stretch of road, walled with forest.

The sudden change in direction took their pursuers by surprise, and they slowed down for the seconds needed for May to roughly dismount from the horse and stand in the middle of the road, as her two companions took off again down the thoroughfare. Then she took out her manuscript and opened it.

Despite Vincent's fatigue, May was rapidly shrinking in the distance, before Dewey stopped him and turned him around so he can see what was happening back up the road.

With the dust clearing, he could see the pursuers slow down in curiousity at what May was doing, and then surround her. Then abruptly, they begin falling from their horses and writhing in the dirt.

While she continued reading, she gingerly walked over to each one and unholstered their guns, throwing them, one-handed, into the nearby woods.

Once done, she stepped back to address her victims.

"Alright. Now I want you to get on your horses and ride back into town, or do you want me to read _Chapter 13_?"

With groans of fear and effort, the men clumsily mounted their rides in agony and galloped back up the road.

May breathed a sigh of relief and began proudly walking up the road, even as Dewey rode Vincent up to meet her.

Dismounting from Vincent, Dewey walked beside May, as they all hiked up the road in peace.

"Girl, how'd you do that?" Dewey asked, with a look that was part curiosity, part fear. "Smokestack told me you did the same thing to those pirates."

He pointed at her dusty, dog-eared script. "That paper. Is that part of your mojo? Were you castin' a gree-gree on all those men?"

May glanced up at Dewey. "Gree-gree? What's that?"

"A hex," he instructed. "A voodoo curse. Are you a hoodoo?"

Chuckling sadly, she said, "No, just a bad storyteller. That was my first attempt at a book. People told me it was bad, but my pride blinded me for so long that it took forever for me to see that."

"Makes a good weapon, though," he commented.

"I know, but I'm hoping that if we survive this, my time on the road might make a _better_ book. And don't worry, I certainly won't leave you two out when I write it."

"Aww, thanks, cher. Who knows? Maybe it'll be made into a play someday. I wonder who'd play me?"

Vincent snorted. "Someone more talented than the source material, surely."

"Aww, what do you know, Horse Meat?" Dewey scoffed.

"Only that whoever portrays _me _will need the power of _two people _to capture my presence and stature," Vincent said, lifting his head to its full height proudly.

Dewey gave a malicious smile. "True dat! Two actors in a horse suit! 'Cause when it come to playin' _you_, they'd have to talk outta _both_ ends."

That caused May to chuckle. "Now, now fellas. I'm sure you'll _both_ shine when I write this thing. Not as bright as _me_, but, y'know. Oh, and for the record, _My Name Is Nobody _was a _way_ better Terence Hill film."

Dewey gave a cautious look at the surrounding woods and road. This was unfamiliar territory for all but him. He turned around to look back up the still empty road. He was thankful, but thinking.

"Don't mean to knock what you did with those men back there, cher, but I think we better get off the road. They may come back, and if we _are_ heading further and further south, I'd rather not be fightin' every slave catcher up and down this place."

"Agreed," Vincent replied soberly. "Besides, I smell water nearby and I am seriously parched."

"Then lead the way, Vince."

The horse took off in an eager trot for a few yards with May and Dewey keeping up in a slow jog, following him down a path off the road and into the concealing vegetation.

Guided by the sounds of Vincent crashing through the foliage and underbrush, the kids hiked deeper into the woods, trekking for almost fifteen minuets nonstop.

After moving through the semi-dark environs for so long, the two teens finally emerged from behind a tree lined shore, and blinked at the sunlight reflecting from a breeze-caressed lake.

Vincent stepped around the small boulders that rested by the water, bowed his head and drank as his companions approached him and sat on some of the stones to rest.

"It's nice out here," May said, looking out onto the water.

"I don't think I've been here before," said Dewey. He looked over to the drinking horse. "How's the water, Vince?"

The horse lifted his head and gave a shuddering belch as an answer, then continued to gorge.

"Well said," Dewey commented.

"How long do we have to stay here?" May asked.

Dewey glanced at her. He could tell she eager to complete her mission. "Not long, cher. We'll be movin' on soon. I just want us to play it smart, that's all. It'll be better stay in the woods for a while, in case those yokels come back with a search party, or something."

May nodded at the sense of it, saying, "Okay, Dewey."

Dewey slid off of his rock and walked over to Vincent. "Thanks, cher. You stay here. Me and Vince'll go back and see if we're being followed."

He patted the horse's flank. "C'mon, Horse Meat. We're gonna go back up the road and cover our tracks."

Vincent lifted his head, licked the precious water from his lips, and lazily followed Dewey back up the long path, disappearing into the dark of the forest.

The _Hessian_, with a rented team of horses, flew across the highway that connected the previous town and its train station to the next leg of the journey that still remained unreachable for another mile or two.

Without Deuteronomy to drive the coach, The Hunter was resigned to that task, sitting high in the coach's box seat, enjoying the rare view the day provided. He drove the team hard, while dreams of real wealth and matrimonial contentment drove him equally hard.

At last, the low, brick and wooden stage station came into view, and it would have been hard to tell who was more excited in reaching it, The Hunter, or the hard-ran team.

With a commanding yank on both the reins and the brake lever, The Hunter's team thundered to a gradual halt just outside the station's corral, where fresh horses were waiting to take the haggard team's place on the _Hessian_.

As the station's crew went to work unhitching the team, The Hunter turned around in his seat and worked at tightening up some loosened cord that was threaded through a leather tarp and was concealing and protecting something large and bulky on the coach's roof luggage rack.

When he found the work unsatisfactory, he stood up in the seat with a grunt, and stepped onto the rack, being careful not to walk on the mysterious bulge underneath. Then the coach was rocked violently hard.

Whoever was in the passenger compartment was surprisingly strong in the cramped quarters, and was slamming into the reinforced doors with enough impact to cause the entire coach body to swing high on its leather thoroughbraces.

The Hunter, standing on the roof, felt like he was on the deck of a stricken ship in a storm, as he fought for balance and leaned awkwardly in opposition to the rough motion.

He knew who it had to be, and habit caused him to go to his holster for his heavy gun, but at the last moment he though against it, and brought both hands up again for counterbalance.

He stomped angrily on the roof.

"Hey! You better not be bustin' up my Hessian, don dere!" he yelled, causing the workers to stop in the middle of their duties and watch this scene play out.

With one more violent slam, the door broke outward, swinging open by its two twisted, surviving hinges, and Nate and Curtis, followed by Lois, carrying Huey, stumbled out, still linked together like a chain gang, only by the wrists. The shackles securing their feet to the floor of the compartment were gone.

"C'mon!" Nate yelled, as the rest of the family scrambled to follow him in their attempt to run into the safety of the high grass and dark woods beyond the station.

The family made it as far as the side of the squat bunkhouse next door, before the ground around their feet exploded with lethal thumps.

Distraught and fearfully discouraged from moving any further, they looked around for their attacker, and sadly found him on top of his coach, aiming a mechanized, tubular weapon they had never seen before.

Held up by a swivel-based, telescopically spring-loaded pedestal, The Hunter pointed a customized Puckle Gun up at the general direction of their legs. No sense in damaging the bounty too greatly, after all.

"You owe me a door," he said evenly. "Let me guess. You picked the ankle locks with a hairpin."

"What is it with that _coach _of yours?" Lois asked him in utter exasperation. Of all the coaches she rode in her life, she never felt as much vexation as she did with this particular one.

"Well, she's my pride and joy, Miss Pewterschmidt," he exclaimed. "She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts. I made a lot of special modifications to her myself."

"That's why you had that thing shipped down here?" she asked.

"Of course," he beamed. "You're almost home. No sense in you not comin' back in style, Miss Pewterschmidt."

Lois bristled. She caught his refusals to acknowledge her marriage to Nate. "It's Mrs. Griffin to you, _bounty hunter_."

The Hunter smiled with anticipation, saying, as if in a whisper, "For a little while, ma'am. For a little while." He then directed his voice at the rest of the clan.

"Now, we're all gonna turn right around and march back into the coach like good little children. I only shot at ya'll with the _round _bullets. Don make me _hit_ you with the square ones."

Momentarily defeated and lacking any new plans of escape, the Griffin Family, minus May, walked back to the Hessian and sullenly reentered it, closing the awkward door back on its now-weakened lock.

The Hunter reached down near the base of the Puckle to a valve connected to a small tank and a network of thin pipe leading into the ceiling of the passenger compartment.

He called out to the workers who were finishing the unhitching and said, while turning the valve, "You boys better finish up quick. With that door broke, I don know if it'll hold back the ether, and I don want to turn this place into a Grateful Dead concert, if I can help it."

The Hunter retracted and covered up the gun under its set aside tarp, sat back down in the driver's box, and then took the precaution of tying a bandana around his mouth and nose. The station crew, with pensive understanding, increased their pace.

Soon, with fast, new horses, and an unconscious bounty inside, the Hessian sped away down the lonely Virginian road.

"There, now," Dewey said with some satisfaction, a large, leafy branch in his hand, and smaller leafy branches tied to the bottom of his worn shoes. "I'd say that'd do it. They'll have a hard time trying to track us now."

Standing by the wild shrubs by the side of the road, Vincent scoffed lightly. "Are you certain this trick will fool them?"

"You kiddin'? 'Course it will. Now, let's get back to May."

Vincent led the way through the heavy growth and brambles with Dewey falling behind due to his removal of the branches on his feet.

The horse kept wondering about a passing thought that nagged at him. During the chase, he thought his saw a sign by the side of the road. Was it a border sign? Did they, indeed, enter the state of Virginia?

As he easily handled the slope back towards the trees sheltering the lakeshore, Vincent fretted inwardly at that. From what May had told him about what had happened to her family, and his own experience in watching what people did to horses and whomever else they deemed, so-called "beasts of burden," if they _did_ make it, it would be for her, at best, a bittersweet reunion and a Pyrrhic victory, and at worse, terrible and utter suicide.

When he reached the tree line, he happened to look down and saw one of May's shoes lying by the root of a tree, and stopped.

When he found the other shoe and her headscarf lying on the other side, he stuck his head past the tree and into the daylight of the shore. May was gone.

"Dewey!" he called out. Panic and worry gripped his massive heart. A moment later, the young man ran to his side.

"What? What's wrong, Vincent?"

"Her clothes are on the ground," the horse said in a tight voice. "I can't find her. I don't see her by the lake. Do you think anyone got here after we left?"

Dewey had to fight to keep his mind from going blank as a defense against the shock of never seeing May again.

Following Vincent's lead, he scanned the surface of the still water, listening for any errant sound of struggle or passage through the nearby woods, and not seeing a single track on the grassy sand, but their own.

He went over everything he did, using all of the knowledge and skills his cursed service to The Hunter had earned him, to protect May, and found nothing lacking. He was just unlucky.

No, he realized. He had _failed_ her. He had lost her.

"May…" his whispered helplessly, the tragedy making his voice crack.

Vincent whinnied sadly, and was about to offer, what he knew to be weak words of comfort, when they both saw someone coming out of the lake.

There, beautifully breaking the water's surface, was May.

A _nude_ May.

Dewey didn't know if he was alive or dead, because at that moment, he could have sworn that he was in Heaven.

"Oh, thank God, she's all right!" sighed a grateful Vincent.

If Vincent was speaking to Dewey, however, there was no way the teenager could have possibly heard him over the sound of Michael Jackson's _Human Nature _playing softly in his head.

May shook the water from her curly hair, and the droplets sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight.

Her caramel skin glowed softly in the noonday as she swam over to one of the boulders that had a waiting cloth and her spectacles on top.

She took her time drying off on the stone, letting the cooling breezes do most of the work while she simply luxuriated in the restful, open setting of Nature.

From where he hid, Dewey couldn't see too much of May's details, but the sheer, uncovered, unadorned beauty he saw of her, struck him dumb.

"Whoa…" was all he could manage.

"Rather!" a misinterpreting Vincent agreed. "What do you think about that?"

"Whoa…" said Dewey, still gazing at May in the sunlight.

Finally catching on and exasperated, Vincent asked him, "Is that all you're going to say, or are you going to continue with your spot on impersonation of Keanu Reeves?"

"Whoa…"

Vincent sighed. This Human was clearly hopeless when it came to obvious romantic endeavors.

"Oh, honestly, if you like the girl so much, then why don't you just do the gentlemanly thing? Nuzzle her neck and mount her."

Dewey seemed to snap out of his trance, but still focused on May. "First things, first."

"My Stars and Garters!" Vincent quipped. "A cogent sentence!"

Dewey ignored him and absently waved at somewhere in the general direction of the rear of him, and said to the horse in an equally vacant voice, "Uh, why don't you, uh...go and…uh...do, uh...something…"

"Well, _that_ didn't last," said Vincent, as he turned back toward the ridge and left him to his oggling.

Something that, unbeknownst to him, May had noticed for more than a minute now, thanks mostly to the two onlookers' slightly loud conversation.

At first she was petrified by their discovery of her, but when she realized that it was just a boy, a horse, and no one else, coupled with the fact that she and the particular boy faced death together, she didn't let it ruffle her. In fact, she let it inspire her.

She secretly always wanted to be The Bad Girl, to really flirt with the boy she liked, show him the goods, as it were, and see if he liked what he saw.

Travel was said to broaden the mind, but who knew it would make her into such an exhibitionist. Being so far from home and getting spied on while skinny-dipping was just too perfect a scenario not to take lascivious advantage of, even though May could easily hear her mother's nasally voice rise in protest to such unladylike behavior.

'_May Griffin, shame on you!' _Lois might have said. _'No boy is going to see _my_ upstanding daughter in her all-together.' _

May, feeling wicked, might have said as a titillated rejoinder, _'Mom, if he's as hot as I think he is, your daughter won't be _up standing_ for long!'_

She was so happy that her folks weren't here to see this.

With a naughty burst of courage, May didn't hide away, yet she fought the urge to turn her head and look at him. She wanted to see how long she could turn him on just by being sexily coy with him.

Although, by now, she was fairly dry, she kept rubbing herself with her cloth in a teasing pantomime of drying, performing a strange variation of a strip-tease, by moving the cloth slowly up and around her breasts, tantalizingly down her belly by inches, softly across her arms, and delicately along her outstretched legs on the warm rock. All the while giving the slightest of glances his way to see his delicious reactions.

She loved it.

Boys were funny that way, she thought with a mischievous smile, but they were also really fun to play with. In very interesting ways.

After a while, she decided to end her little game, so she made a show of getting off her rock as a way of warning him that she was coming over to get dressed.

Watching May approach, Dewey, in a panic, left the tree he had been leaning against, and scampered further up the slope to meet up with Vincent and wait for her to rejoin them.

After some time passed, with Dewey sitting against the base of a tree, he stood and walked quickly to meet her when he heard that her ascend to their leveled off part of the slope.

"We didn't see you when we got back from coverin' our tracks by the road," Dewey said nonchalantly, doing a good job of not letting on about his earlier fears or his desirous watching of her.

May, being no less an actress for having spent time with one, looked convincingly innocent after letting him peer over just about ever inch of her body, and said, "Sorry about that. I had to take a dip. I've been on the road so long, I smelled like Eragon."

The sound of dead leaves and branches moving furtively on the forest floor were suddenly heard, heralding the presence of a gray squirrel coming up from the slope.

With a rapid-fire series of irate chirps, the rodent picked up a few small rocks and threw them at Dewey, and then left him.

Surprised by the startling behavior of the animal, May asked, "Dewey, why was that squirrel mad at you?"

Dewey shrugged, "Hmm? Oh, I busted a nut."

"Oh!"

The sun sat in its position of early afternoon, and the trio had made fair amount of progress through the lower, more level grade of forest beyond the lake, after circumnavigating as much of the lake as there was shoreline to walk upon.

Now, about a mile or two from the lake, they were picking their way through an area of sparcer growth, and the silent, but universal consensus was that they wished that they could travel on the much easier roadways.

"The newest fashions are all influenced by Paris and New York, these days," Vincent said, while navigating through some narrow trees. "Being tan is considered adventurous and the womens' bustles are a full two inches larger now. Can you imagine?"

Dewey, who was leading him by the reins and now helping him get by the trees, didn't seem all that impressed.

"Big whoop," he scoffed. "The only thing I'm interested in is whether we're in Virginia, or not."

Vincent scoffed back. "Philistine."

"Filly," came Dewey's smirking rejoinder.

The horse gave an indignant snort, while May, who was a little further ahead of them, giggled.

Dewey then called out to May, to include her in the conversation.

"I don't get these people at all, boo. They swear up and down that they don't like us because of what we look like, and then they do everything they can to look just like us. I wonder why?"

May welcomed the chance to talk about something, _anything_. It was the tonic that kept them focused and sane during these exhausting hikes. Chatting, singing, even making each other laugh by playing Dozens, all of this good camaraderie made this adventure much more bearable.

With a friendly shrug, she pressed on, saying to them, "I don't know. What's the French word for 'jealousy?' Anyway, I wouldn't worry. We still have our developing new culture here in this country, like our music, and the way we talk and dress. Don't worry guys; they can't take _that_ away from us. We'll be okay."

Behind May, Dewey and Vincent exchanged a pitying look at her expense.

"Think we should tell her?" Dewey asked the horse.

"Nay, nay, I say," said Vincent in an authoritarian manner.

Dewey stopped moving and thought about what he just heard. It didn't sound right to him.

"Wait, when you said 'nay' just now, were you just being a horse and sayin' 'neigh?'"

"Nay," Vincent said simply.

Dewey felt like he hit a logical dead end. Then he had an idea.

"Whinny," he told the horse.

Vincent looked perplexed at Dewey's obvious sentence fragment. "When he what?"

"What d'ya mean, 'whinny what?' You're a horse, aren't ya?"

"You tell me. You the one who said, 'when he…'"

"Yeah! Whinny!"

"When he _what_?"

Dewey rubbed his eyes in tired frustration. "Look, you're a horse, right?"

"Yes, you silly person."

"Neigh," he told the horse.

"What do you mean, nay? I _am_ a horse."

"Neigh!"

"Stop saying that! I _am_ a horse! I _am_ a horse!"

"Then whinny!"

"WHEN HE _WHAT_?" Vincent screamed.

Then they heard May scream.

Looking ahead, they didn't see her among the thinner trees. Fearing that they really may have lost her, this time, the two slalomed through the rough vegetation and past her last known vicinity.

Calling out for her, they pushed their way through and ended up stumbling into a wide clearing, possibly a meadow. Up ahead was May.

She looked as though she were praying. Slumped on her knees, in the grass, her head was so low from their point of view, it seemed as though it wasn't there.

Dewey ran to her, nervously calling her name more softly, but still getting no response from her.

He knelt beside her, looking over to her, checking for injuries and finding none. At least none that were visible.

May couldn't speak. It was all she could do to breathe inbetween her tortured sobbing, as she slowly, _angrily_ clutched and tore out two fist-sized clumps of sod in her hands.

She shuddered in Dewey's arms as he held her, looking around for the source of her pain, wishing he knew what was wrong and wanting to free her from whatever was emotionally breaking her in two.

In fact, so focused was he on May, that he hadn't noticed, until he was next to her, what she was kneeling before. In his horror, he felt sick to the very core of his being.

Suspended by a weathered, hemp rope tied to a strong branch from a tree ahead of them was the shoeless, beaten corpse of a black woman.

A breeze came and went, causing the body to sway gently.

Whether by the secret protection of her parents, or just simple providence, in all her young years under the shadow of the lash, May had never once seen one of her people suffer the ultimate end to white man's cruelty. Accidentally walking into this site of terror and death killed May's innocence from within, because she could clearly empathize with the victim.

She was a young woman, a little older than May, but still in the prime of her life, and a slave, as Griffin once was. May couldn't help but see herself in the dead woman's place for whatever reason she was up there.

Had her family not escaped Virginia, would this have been her fate someday, as well? A life of possible promise ended because of local retribution for some imagined slight? Or covering their guilty tracks after a random and brutal rape? Or just for no reason at all.

All May knew was that she died by their cowardly hands, regardless of cause. Willingly murdered by psychopaths with societal carte blanche.

Seeing the dead woman hanging before him took the strength out of Dewey. There was the bitter taste of acid in the back of his throat and his stomach ached. He wanted to wail and weep along with May, but instead became the opposite. Not overwhelmed with emotion, but, emotionally hollow. Sentimentally undead.

He could hear the slow plodding of hoof beats as Vincent came up to the grievers, silently giving his support and offering up his sorrowful solidarity with bowed head, but the boy barely noticed him.

Death had long since claimed that poor woman's soul, but all three of them could feel his presence in the field now. They couldn't be sure if was a pervasive fear, or merely sadness at the tragedy of it all.

Then it hit them by degrees, that numbing feeling again. Fear and sorrow. Those two old ghosts that haunted them and every other slave from birth to death. Those inescapable lion's jaws of the oppression they had to live with day after day after ruthless day.

The time-honored evil and psychological erosion that could wear one down to nothing. It was here, it was _always_ here, whether they left it once or not, hidden in the beauty of the land, but eager to devour its toll of the disenfranchised.

Like the poor woman in the tree.

Dewey slowly lifted his head to the dead slave, his eyes haunted and pained, not wanting to look but forcing himself to, as some weak form of penance.

If this was God truly punishing him for his past, he figured that this was just the beginning.

"I guess we made it," he whispered in desolation.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter _Ten-_

The two teens warily rode Vincent slowly through the dusty, main street entering the Virginian town, and the feeling of untrusting, resentful eyes watching them was immediate.

"Y'know, it just dawned on me that we made it this far mostly by asking directions. That makeshift map that Governor gave us only pointed the way out of Jersey City. From that point on, it was all about asking," May said, possibly making conversation to ease the tension she surely felt.

"Well, maybe so," Dewey replied, half-listening. "But we need supplies and ol' Vince here, needs to be fed and watered."

From the corners of their eyes, the visitors could see the body language of the white citizens on either side of the street stiffen slightly and shift either protectively, or offensively. The kids just wished the people would just go about their affairs and not notice them, but that was like asking for the moon.

Across the street was a feed store. Dewey turned his head to inspect it for patronage, then felt his heart sink as a large man in an apron, the store's proprietor, no doubt, came out of the building and stood resolutely in the doorway, guarding it.

This would soon become a familiar scene. Just as they approached a feed or general store, an owner, worker, or even a customer, would stand guard by the doorway, giving it the strongest anti-advertisement a store could ever be christened.

The trio of visitors began to hope that, if they weren't summarily run out of town, they could find better shopping away from this frostily downtown area, when they heard, and then seen something unusual.

An old white woman came toddling out of what looked to be the last general store on the street. Leaning on the railing of the porch that was part of the building's facade, her head hung in worry.

"Oh, what am I gonna do, now," she muttered sadly to no one in particular. "I'm gonna lose the store, 'cause I've got no business, hardly. I'll just die if lose my store."

Behind Dewey, he could feel May shift in reaction to what was heard. He turned to see her looking at the crone.

"Oh, no, May," he said.

"What?"

"You got that "let's-help-the-old-lady-out-and-maybe-she'll-help-us" look in your eye. Nothin' good'll come from helpin' them out. You see how they're lookin' at us, and they don't know us from Adam's housecat."

"I know, Dewey," May entreated. "But maybe this will be the thing that fixes all of that. We need the supplies, and we may need the goodwill if we want to get through this town. If we help her out, we can kill two birds with one stone."

Dewey debated her words in his mind at a frantic pace as they came up to the store, on they way to passing it. In the end, necessity, not diplomacy, won out, and he slowed Vincent to a stop in front of the store.

"I must have rocks in my head, you talkin' about stones," he muttered to himself as May thanked him and dismounted.

The girl walked up to the front of the store with a timid step, well aware that the sight of the disapproving was upon her.

When she reached a point where she felt was at a safe enough distance from the old woman on her porch, she spoke up.

"Ma'am, my friend and I couldn't help but notice that you don't have any customers in your store. We need some supplies and we would love to buy them from your store, if you'd let us."

The old woman lifted her head to the speech as if it had interrupted her flow of thought while she fretted. Looking down at May, she realized that it was the girl who spoke to her.

"I haven't seen you around these parts before, but you sound Virginian," she told May.

"Yes, ma'am. I was born in Lynchtree."

"Lynchtree, you say? Not too far from here. You headed up that way?"

'_In a saner world, no,' _thought May, but she smiled and said, "Yes, ma'am. That's why we need a few things from your store, and then we'll be on our way."

The old woman scrunched her age-lined face in thought, as May looked to her expectantly.

Finally, the storeowner nodded and turned back to her store.

"Okay, you two. You can come on in, but don't stay too long, now," she bade them.

May made fists in triumph as she walked up the short steps to the building.

"C'mon, Dewey," May called to him. "You coming?"

"Kill two birds with one stone. Y'know they'll probably use stones to smash us, if they can't find any rope to hang us," Dewey said sourly, but he soon dismounted, tied Vincent to the store's hitching post, and entered the building.

A short time later, both teens were back outside the store, loading up the two saddle bags on either side of Vincent with an amount of groceries that normal satchels couldn't possibly hold, yet were doing so with ease.

"I still can't believe how much we can put in these bags," May marveled as she finally closed and tied down the bag on her side.

"Told you helpin' that wizard out in Kentucky would be good for us," Dewey said proudly as he finished his packing.

He then looked over to the horse. "How you doin', Vince? You all set?"

"Most assuredly," he said. "These bags are surprisingly light, considering the load, and I'll be glad to find a nice meadow to graze in, since the establishments in this town leave much to be desired."

Dewey glanced cautiously to either side of him, checking for eavesdroppers, and gratefully finding none.

"Well, you better keep that high-tone talk to yourself until we get out of Dodge," he warned him.

Vincent scoffed. "Dodge? We're nowhere near Dodge City. Best to leave the navigating to me, young man."

May approached the porch of the store as the old proprietress came out to meet them there.

"Ma'am, we want to thank you so much for all you've done for us," May said from below. "You didn't have to help us, but you did. God bless you, ma'am."

Dewey turned towards the porch, gave a thankful nod of the head and said to the woman, "Much obliged, ma'am. Thank you."

The old woman straightened up and stood with a proud smile on her wizened face. Beside her on the porch, was a small wooden crate covered with a cloth.

"I'm so grateful that you two chose to shop here and help keep me in business. But, as you probably know, due to peer pressure and my own innate, narrow-minded ignorance, I am obliged to hate and distrust you both for no earthly, conceivable reason."

With that, she stooped over and pulled away the cloth hiding the crate, which revealed a pile of rotten tomatoes.

With a lungpower that belied her age, she blew out a whistle that echoed clearly along the street, calling white men, women and children from all over the block to ready their rotten tomatoes as they came out of their respective buildings.

In parting, as she picked up a particularly oozing specimen from the crate to throw, the old woman said congenially, "Oh, and welcome to Stoolbend."

_The Well _was the town's only colored saloon. It was a dive. A hole in the wall. It was everything, but it barely qualified as a saloon. Hidden away in a small side street, it was held together with naught but rusty nails and good intentions, and stocked more with stolen, and therefore, _donated_ liquor than was actually bought. Regardless, it survived in spite of the odds, something its black patrons inside could wholeheartedly relate to.

While someone plinked away on a cheap piano desperately in need of tuning, people drank, gambled, and sang away their stress in the dim environs, and because the place was fairly full for afternoon business, no one seemed to notice the almost inaudible commotion going on beyond the establishment's only window.

The gloom of the watering hole was exorcised for a brief moment by sunlight, as May and Dewey, covered in rotten tomatoes, stomped angrily inside.

By the door was a table on which a sign rested, that said, "Hot Towels." In a basket next to the sign were warm, folded white towels. The duo grabbed a towel each and proceeded to wipe and clean the rancid pulp and juice off themselves.

Looking around this unfamiliar place, they could see, standing and sitting among the Humans in the dark bar, various aliens.

Ithorian, Talz, Devaronian, and even a juvenile Chadra-Fan asking for blue milk both stood out and blended in with the other patrons within.

"I told you not to help that old lady out," Dewey growled in low tones so as not to upset the customers.

"I said I was sorry, Dewey," May defended herself. "I thought she was actually different than the others because she was old."

"Take a tip from someone who lives on the road, Grasshopper. Young bigots are mean. Old bigots are nasty. Hell, she even supplied the tomatoes from her own _store_."

May tilted her head and shook it lightly. "I think I still have some pulp in my ear."

She followed Dewey up to the simple counter that served the place and sat beside him, settling her nerves. She knew where she was and what the prevailing attitude would be for her people, but she chided herself for not expecting that the two of them would be set upon _so_ _fast_ by these people.

"Is there anyplace I can go to wash my hands?" May asked the bartender, a wiry, scowling black man who was cleaning shot glasses.

"If the towels didn't get everything off, there's a pump out back, if you wanna use that," he said with gruff indifference, pointing to a door across the room.

"No," said May. "It's just that…well, we found this poor woman, um…hung…outside of town. So we cut her down and gave her a proper burial. I guess I've still got dirt in my nails or something."

The bartender stiffened upon hearing that, then he relaxed in a somber manner and reached out and held May's hand in gratitude.

"Thank you, child."

"Huh?"

The bartender gave a sigh that was part mournful, part grateful. "That was my sister. She went out to visit a friend one day, and hadn't been seen since."

The shock of such a sad revelation jolted through May and she grasped his hands back in commiseration.

"I'm so sorry, sir. We can tell you where she is now, if you want to visit her."

The bartender gave a sad smile and shook his head slowly. "You can tell me later. But for what you did for her, the drinks are all on the house."

"Whoa! Thanks, brah," Dewey said brightly. "Say, you wouldn't, by any chance, know how to get to a place called Lynchtree? We're kinda pressed for time an' we need to get there as soon as possible."

The bartender looked up in thought and then said to him, "Well, if you take the main road goin' west, I know it's the next town over, but you'll have to _keep_ to the west, 'cause the road forks. Otherwise, you'll end up in Killingsberg."

"Much obliged, brah."

A man clad in a pair of oily overalls sat up to the counter, smelling of horses, dust, and tobacco, slapped a few coins down on its surface and asked the bartender, "Do you still have some of that good bourbon? I'm dyin' o' thirst."

The bartender set up a glass and poured the rich brown liquid in it while the customer salivated. The man downed the glass in a swift gulp and motioned for another pour. After inhaling the drink, he glanced over to the two unfamiliar figures beside him.

"Hey, how's it goin'?" he asked jovially.

"Oh, we're just fine, brah," said Dewey. "Just got into town a little while ago. Just passin' through, an' all."

"I hear ya. Who's that? Your sister?"

May, who was busy sketching on a cocktail napkin a crude map of the bartender's sister gravesite, gave a frustrated sigh.

"Why does everybody say that? No, I'm his friend. May Griffin."

"Oh! Well, don't pay me no mind. Some of my best friends say their sisters are some of the cutest girlfriends they've got, so the question pops up now and again. Welcome to Stoolbend, by the way."

"Thanks," May said with a touch of sarcasm as she passed the map to the bartender. "We ran into the welcoming committee earlier with their twenty-one vegetable salute."

"Tomatoes are fruits, actually, but damn sorry to hear that," Overalls sighed. "That's why I say thank God for this place. It's one of the few places we can go to and not be bothered. What're you guys drinkin'?"

"I don't know," Dewey confessed. "Never had anything stronger than watered down cider." He turned to May. "What about you? If it's milk, I don't think they have that here."

May was taken aback. She had never been asked what she wanted to drink before. She had to remind herself that she and Dewey _did_ duck into a saloon, such as it was, and drinking was the order of the day here.

"Uh, well, I…"

"Oh, I'm sure she had a glass of wine now and again, haven't ya?" insisted the man.

May felt a little pressured by the attention, and for some reason, she didn't want Dewey to think she was a complete schoolmarm. They were in an adult place. She should be adult enough to handle it.

She heard the man ask for..._bourbon_? Maybe she could handle a drink of that.

"Uh, I like…bourbon," she bravely lied.

Overalls slid a few more coins on the counter. "Give the little lady a shot of what I'm havin'."

"No need to pay for her," said the bartender. "She drinks for free."

Overalls took back the money with a grin and said to May, "Damn, girl! I like you already."

Dewey gave May an apprehensive look as the shot glass was presented to her. For her part, she gawked at it as though a dead frog was placed in the glass instead.

Once again she felt all eyes on her, so she steeled herself and shakily lifted the glass to her quaking lips.

'_Just pretend you're being kissed by Dewey again,' _she thought as she closed her eyes, pursed her lips, and took a gulp that emptied the glass in one nervous move.

If one could see inside her stomach when the bourbon entered it, it would have looked like a typical, strong chemical reaction to the alcohol.

To May, however, it felt like the end of the world in miniature. Between the heavy, burning sensation in her guts, and her approaching tipsiness due to the unforeseen rapidity of her absorption of the alcohol, she uncomfortably didn't know which end was up.

With a groan, May fell off the stool and hit the floor.

"What was _in_ that?" Dewey asked the bartender worryingly.

"Oh, that?" Overalls asked, lifting his glass proudly. "Just a little something from the back hills, young'un. Guess your girl thought she could handle it. This stuff'll shine the rust off the gates of Hell."

May's stool shifted slightly as its occupant slowly clawed and climbed her way back up into an unsteady seated position.

"May?" Dewey quietly called to her.

She turned slowly to the sound of his voice and tried to lock bleary eyes on him. Then a sloppy smile stumbled across her face.

"Baby, I really like yooou," May slurred as she leaned in to speak to him intimately. "You got spunk...I _really_ like spunk." Then she laughed with abandon at her double entendre.

"Okay, cher. I think you had one too many. Heck, for you, one _is_ one too many. Time to see The Sandman."

May, slurring into the counter, asked absently, "Mmmm...Metallica?"

"That's right, dear," he said, placating her as she drifted completely into sleep.

Dewey turned to the bartender, asking him, "Is there anyplace she can sleep this off? She had a heck of a day."

"Sorry, son," he apologized. "We've got no place for that."

Dewey sighed. "That's okay, then. I'll just have to keep an eye on her here. Boy, is she gonna be embarrassed when she comes to."

The man chuckled at the scene.

"Boy, you (bleep)s are crazy," Overalls commented with jocularity.

Dewey stiffened upon hearing what he and May were called, but because it was said in jest, he gave a pained smile and kindly asked, "Excuse me, brah, but would you mind not callin' us that?"

"Huh?" the man chuckled.

"That there particular word. I'd be much obliged if you didn't call us by that word."

"What? (Bleep)? It's a term of endearment. What's wrong with it?"

Dewey gave the man a pitying glance. "Brah, if _I_ gotta tell you what's wrong with it…"

Overalls stiffened in annoyance, putting his drink down with noticeable impact. "Hey, young'un, relax. It's alright. It's spelled with an 'a,'" he said, giving his flimsy rationale.

"I don't care if it's spelled with a German umlaut," Dewey said evenly. "You can't polish a turd. That word's still ugly.

"What?"

"C'mon. Is this the best we can do when we can't think of no other word to call each other by, but the very word used to keep us down?"

Overalls only looked more indignant at the teen, but Dewey was undeterred.

"Look, I know you don't mean nothing by it, but I'm sorry. There's just no way you can sugarcoat it, no matter _how_ many times you say it. There's just too much pain and sufferin' behind it. Hell, I don't have to tell _you_ that. So please don't call us (bleep), or (bleep) with an 'a,' okay, brah? Trust me, our people will _thank_ you for it."

Overalls stood up by his stool and faced Dewey with open, pig-headed ire.

"Look here. I've had 'bout enough of you. It's bad enough the white folks talk down to me all day-"

"Exactly my point!"

"But now I gotta come here and hear it from you?" he roared. "Stand up, boy!"

Dewey looked at the man as though he were touched in the head. He only said what he said to set the older man straight, and now this man wanted to fight him because of it.

Dewey turned in his seat to face him, still sitting, saying coolly, "Naw, brah, I like you, that's why I'm-a give you a little fashion tip. Blunt force trauma is _so_ last season." He then added with a hint of menace, "Are you feelin' me?"

Out of the man's sight, he patted the sap in his pocket reassuringly.

Overalls, however, proud Virginian that he was, knew a challenge when he heard one, and was eager to trounce this whelp in front of all and sundry.

"Why you-"

The sap flew from Dewey's pocket with practiced speed and whipped into the top of the man head, stunning him instantly. A thrusting kick pushed the man into other patrons who were on the other side of him.

Another man watching the man fall into the customers, raised his voice in alarm, yelling, "Hey! He hit Susan!"

As if on cue, three men, clearly friends of Susan, began to close in on Dewey as he brandished the sap, worrying how he could protect a sleeping May in the middle of a bar fight.

"I'll brain the first one who comes up to me," Dewey warned, trying to keep the fear out of his voice as the men approached at a slower pace, but approached all the same.

He felt a sudden tap on his shoulder, and before he heard a groggy voice say, "Dewey," he reacted.

He spun around to meet the sneaky attacker, using the spin to give his thrown punch more momentum, as he lashed out with a fast right hook that connected with surprising precision to May's jaw. She went down like a stone in the water.

"May!" Dewey gasped in horror, kneeling beside her crumpled form on the dirty floor, gently shaking her by the shoulders to rouse her. "I'm sorry, darlin'! I'm sorry! I didn't see you there. Honest!"

Dewey looked up to see the men closing. He reached out, grabbed a stool, and threw it at them.

The three men dodged it easily and resumed their stalking, even as the stool smashed through the bar's front window.

One man who was the closest, reached for Dewey, who stood up, and with sap in hand, brought it down against the man's vulnerable hand, smashing the back of it.

That distraction bought the other two the time they needed to outflank Dewey and pummel him. Every time he would swing at one, the other took advantage of it. With punches, and then, when he fell under those, stomps and fast kicks from heavy work boots, Dewey was handily subdued.

They lifted him to his feet and held him up on either side, so that their recovering partner could work on him next.

The man noticed something on the floor by Dewey's feet. When he reached down and picked it up, he rose with an evil grin. In his uninjured hand was Dewey's loosed sap. He said nothing as he stepped up to Dewey, and raised it high to smash it into the boy's skull.

A table was effortlessly thrown from across the bar, and crashed into large pieces before Dewey and his attackers, stopping the armed man momentarily.

All eyes tracked the direction where the table came from, and then the three men all gasped in fear.

A big, burly shadow in a dark, now tableless corner, stood resolute and stared holes into the mob of three. He started to walk towards them.

"It's him!" said one of the men.

"The Battlin' Bishop!" said the other.

"The Wrasslin' Reverend!" gasped the third.

"Redd Brown!" the mob said in fearful unison.

A bald, thick, muscular black man, with an even thicker handlebar mustache and muttonchops, stepped into the relative light of the bar.

"The boy's right. No brother should _ever_ call his fellow brother a (bleep), even with an 'a'," the reverend announced boldly in a deep, manly voice. "Can I get an amen, somebody?"

"Amen!" the entirety of the bar replied quickly.

"Alright," the man of the cloth said, pleased with the response.

"Now go sit your motherfuckin' asses back down," he then commanded the trio.

The area of space the mob stood in was deserted in a heartbeat. Dewey leaned against the counter, duly flabbergasted.

"Much obliged, sir," Dewey breathed in gratitude as he straightened himself up and brushed himself off.

"Think nothin' of it, boy," the reverend said, slapping the teen's back with such easy force that Dewey felt the wind leave him for a second.

Redd then leaned against the bar, just as the bartender emerged from the safety behind it.

"Believe it or not, but you two aren't the real victims of this bar fight," he told Dewey as he gestured to Susan on the floor nearby. "He is."

He then gestured over to Susan's friends. "They are. _We_ are. That's what this town, this whole country does to you. It keeps you down, and you're so put upon by The System that it makes you lash out at your brother and sister. Say things you really don't mean. Forgive 'em, you two. They really didn't mean it."

Before Dewey could say anything else to the reverend, however, Vincent's large, white head shot in through the hole in the window. He looked agitated and more than a little worried.

"May! Dewey!" he yelled into the bar. "We've got to get out of here! Po-po's coming!"

Redd bounded past Dewey and stopped by the door across the room, opening and then gesturing to it.

"Is that your girl on the floor, there, young fella?" he asked.

"Huh?" Dewey took a look down to see May still out cold. "Oh! Yes, sir."

"Well, you better pick her up and follow me, then," he ordered. Dewey obeyed.

"Meet us out back!" Dewey called out to Vincent, as he cradled May in his arms and vacated the building hastily with the priest.

Redd led Dewey outside to a dilapidated horse-drawn cart that was parked by the bar's rear delivery area, as Vincent approached them.

Dewey was about to lay May in the cart's rear bed, when she slowly blinked her eyes open and stirred in his hold. He let her down gingerly so she could stand.

"What…What happened?" May asked while she tried stand straight on rubbery legs.

"That booze went right to your head, May, darlin'," Dewey said to deflect his culpability. "Knocked you out colder than a catfish. _That's_ what happened. How do you feel?"

May gave a lightning quick kick into Dewey's groin that had the teen crumpled to the ground in a fetal position almost as fast.

"Ouch!" Vincent said with a wince.

"Better, now," she said as she favored her sore jaw. "Okay, let's go."

"Yes'm," Dewey managed to squeak.

Reverend Redd Brown sat up in the driver's seat of the cart and said, with a bold laugh upon seeing May, and then finally, Dewey, getting into the back, "Welcome to Stoolbend!"

The small party took off in the dust, and soon, the saloon, and their current troubles would be far behind them.

The patrons in the bar parted respectfully before the constable and his deputies, as they walked casually through the table wreckage and stepped up to the recovering first casualty of the brawl.

As Susan's eyes focused more strongly on the law enforcement officers, the constable amiably leaned close to the man's face as the deputies protectively flanked him.

"So, I hear you like callin' black people (bleep), even _with _an 'a'," the officer said in a friendly tone that hid none of the menace or malice to come. "Please, allow me to show you how it's done."

The church picnic Redd presided over was lively to say the least. Held outside a barn that was given over to the festivities by a white farmer's family's rare act of charity, the churchgoers engaged in spirited, if not gossipy, talk, flirting, and, of course, eating.

Over at one table, May and Dewey were devouring anything edible in proximity to them. Being on the road gave them the appetite of Hercules, and they wasted no time in filling up on what they could before the next leg of their journey.

Redd approached their table, impressed by their Olympic-style gorging, and asked, "How are you kids doing? Enjoying the picnic?"

"Oh, yes! Thank you so much, Reverend Brown," May manage to say between bites. "We haven't eaten this well in a long time."

"Good, good. I put these things together every now and then so that the people can have a way to let off some steam. You know, we're havin' a jamboree in the barn afterwards. Give everybody a chance to work off that food dancin' and singin'. You're certainly welcome to join in."

Dewey looked up at the reverend with an indebted face and said, "Sir, we would be delighted. Thank you, and thank you again for savin' our bacon back in town."

"Aw, don't mention it. Well, I'll leave you two to your meal. Have fun."

"We will and thanks!" they said in grateful unison as their host left to attend to the picnic's other functions.

"So far, so good, cher," Dewey said after another mouthful of food. "This is just what we needed. Vince is grazin' out in the field, and we're just plain grazin'. Life is good."

"I second that, and we should be ready to move on by morning," said May. "So we better think about what we'll have to do before then. Now the bartender said that we need to take the main road out of town-"

"Yeah, yeah, we both know what he said, cher," Dewey dismissed with an easy smile. "If fact, he pretty much did our thinking for us as far as getting to Lynchtree's concerned. Getting there'll be easy with Vince, so we have all the time in the world to relax and get some serious fun under our belts at that jamboree tonight."

May's misgivings shone through her food-smeared face.

"I don't know, Dewey. Time's not exactly on our side, y'know? We don't know if that Hunter's made it here to Virginia yet. And even when we get to Lynchtree, we still have to find Grandpa's mansion."

"We'll find it, cher," he placated. "But you have to admit, you've been through a lot. We _both _have. Now's the time to rest up and have some fun before the big showdown."

"The big showdown?" May asked nervously.

"Sho'nuff. You didn't think they'd give your family up once we somehow managed to get there, did ya? Chances are, we'll probably get killed, or worse."

"_Or_ we might just _succeed_," May countered quickly, feeling more than a little pensive under Dewey's dire pragmatism.

"That's possible. That's possible. We can _work_ with that," he conceded. "All I'm sayin' is that we don't know what might happen once we're out on the road again, so it's best that we _enjoy_ this sweet life while we're able. What d'ya say?"

May thought it over, and despite her own earlier pragmatism, she acquiesced. He made sense in his own way. Whether by fate or divine providence, they were here in the middle of a fine party that would be gone by morning, just as they would be. But before that happened, however, they should do all they could to live it up as much as possible.

With a begrudging smile, May said, "Okay, we'll party like it's 1899. But only because you asked."

That night, the barn rang with the joyful noise of whoops, hollers, singing, and music making.

The center of the barn was turned into a makeshift dance floor, and people were milling around its periphery, either looking for an empty spot to show off their moves, or simply gathering their courage before doing so.

May and Dewey stood further from the dance floor, by the hay bales, to watch the other couples twirl and stomp away. A few other young couples also stood with them, watching for spots to open up so they could enter and impress the older set with their choreography and energy.

The band finally finished their sprightly tune, allowing the dance area to clear of the older crowds to rest and remark on their performances.

"The band's done for now. I think we'll get a shot out there next," Dewey said anxiously.

"I hope I'm that spunky when I'm _their_ age," said May.

"If you dance like they do, I don't think it'll matter, dearie," said a catty voice from behind them both.

A young couple, not much older than May and Dewey, strutted up to them proudly, eyeing them dismissively.

"Who are you?" May asked them.

"The dirtiest dancers this side of a drainage ditch. My girl can shake more booty than a pirate with Parkinson's," said the boy unabashedly while mentally preparing for their dance.

Dewey took the boy's boast in stride and was unimpressed.

"Well, _my_ girl was literally too _much_ booty for one pirate, and she sank him." He turned to May and said while he cuddled her, "That's right, my baby did that. Lost all hands."

"You just know the right thing to say, don't you?" May cooed, cuddling him back.

The other couple couldn't help but roll their eyes at such blatant displays of affection, and waved them off.

"Well, you two can go cuddle in a corner somewhere," said the girl. "We'll be settin' this barn on fire, thank you very much."

Now it was May's turn to trash-talk. "Ha! What do _you_ know about dirty dancing?" she asked her haughtily. "We dance so dirty, we gotta wear protection before we hit the floor. C'mon, Dewey!"

The band suddenly came back to life, and jumped right into George Michael's _Fastlove_, as both couples marched with determination over to the deserted dance area while resting dancers pointed and asked among themselves what these new dancers were up to do.

The barn miraculously turned into an 80's dance club as May and Dewey stood off to one side and graciously gave the other couple the floor first.

_The Pizza Delivery Guy_

The girl, wearing a bathrobe, walked with a bouncing step to a door set on a frame and opened it. In stepped her partner, wearing a pizza delivery uniform and carrying a pizza box.

The girl walked backwards and the boy walked forward into her "house" in time to the music.

Once the boy put the box down, the girl took a slice of pizza out of it and held it in her teeth. She then took the rest of the pie and held it up against her chest with her right hand, walking sexily towards him.

The boy stepped up and held her with his left hand as she wrapped one leg around him. Both held each other close with their free left and right hands.

As they bumped and grinded in place, they proceeded to eat the slice that was in her teeth from both ends.

_The Experimental Girlfriend_

May and the girl sexily walked up and circled each other in time to the music, checking each other out.

Both girls then stepped up to each other and let their hands roam around their bodies without touching, as they bent and pressed up against each other.

They took turns getting behind one another and again, let their hands seemingly roam all over their bodies.

Finally, both girls, facing each other, brought their hands to the other's cheeks, and while undulating, brought their faces close enough to _almost_ kiss before breaking off to return to their partners.

_The High School Teacher_

May was a teacher, writing on a set up blackboard, wearing a loose blouse and a tight skirt.

Dewey, dressed as a student, strutted up to her from behind in time to the music.

May dropped the chalk and, with legs apart, bent over to pick it up, giving Dewey the opportunity he needed to grind her from behind.

May, feigning shock, stood and lightly pushed him into her desk. Then she seductively reached into her blouse and pulled out a ruler from her cleavage, walked over to Dewey and slowly ran the ruler up his inner thigh.

When it reached his crotch, Dewey took the ruler from her and spun around so that May was now between him and her desk.

Bending her over the desk, he "spanked" her four times, threw down the ruler and ground her from behind again, this time while she straightened up and reached back to cup his cheek.

Suddenly, May turned around, facing him with her legs apart, and grabbed him by the hair, pushing him down to his knees so that he was now facing her crotch.

Still holding him by the top of his head, she lustfully moved his body around in a circular motion, before giving him a haughty shove.

_The Key Party_

A table was set in the middle of the dance floor with a small bowl on top. Inside were two sets of car keys.

Both girls sauntered over and reached in, taking an opposing set of keys.

They then walked sultrily over to their opposing partners and danced with _them_ before breaking away to be with their original partners again.

_The Vampira_

The boy walked over to a coffin that sat in the middle of the dance floor and opened it.

His partner, reposing within, stepped out of the casket and proceeded to twirl around him until she finally stopped directly behind him and "bit" him, reaching over and grabbing his crotch for good measure.

She then turned him around and pushed him into the side of the coffin.

When she reached him, she raised a shapely leg and planted her foot right next to him on the coffin and aggressively straddled him.

_The Uncle Carl aka The Lolita_

May was now dressed as a little girl in a frilly dress, a lollypop playing on her lips. She looked innocent as she was busy grinding on the knee of Dewey, who was dressed like a typical uncle, right down to the mustache, in a kind of lap dance.

She then stood, turned, and raised her leg to place a foot on his knee seductively, Dewey stroking her stockinged knee and leg in time to the music as she undulated.

May got off his knee and they both stood, facing each other. She hopped up on him, straddling him around the waist, as they both bucked and undulated until the song wound down, with the two of them on the floor, entwined and breathing hard…

Amidst the raucous applause in the barn, both weary couples smiled, impressed by the other's performance and stamina, and good-naturedly gave one another congratulatory handshakes and hugs, before they left to rest and other couples were given their time on the dance floor.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter _Eleven-_

As rambunctious as the jamboree proved to be, it eventually had to come to its end, as all parties did.

After the assigned cleaning team finished tidying the interior of the barn, Reverend Brown saw everyone off as he stood by the barn doors, watching church-goers and their friends stroll out of the barn in small groups, going over the night's events with a hearty laugh, a scandalous whisper, or a secretly jealous glance. There would definitely be something for all to discuss, come Sunday.

As the last group of people began to file past, he asked them, "Excuse me, but do you know if those two kids I brought over from town are still around?"

"No, Rev."

"Can't say that I have."

"Maybe they went on, Rev."

"Yeah," he agreed at last. "They did say that they were passin' through, and all. I hope they'll be okay. All right, I'm closin' up the barn. I'll see y'all later. Good night, ya'll."

As the last group bade him a good night, also, he closed the massive doors and followed the trail of people to their carts and wagons.

After a while, the partiers had finally departed, leaving the farm to the quiet night.

A stray strand of hay fell free from the dim loft inside the barn. Something was stirring up above.

May's head emerged from underneath a pile of hay gathered in a corner of the loft, away from the curious. Dewey's head appeared a moment later.

"I think they're gone," May reported as she fully came out of the pile and brushed some straw off her shoulders. "We can come out."

"That was a pretty good idea of yours, pretending you wanted to make out with me up here in the loft so we could hide until the people left. I wouldn't have thought of it."

"Thanks," she said with a hint of frustration, then said under her breath, "I really _did _want to make out with you."

"Don't mention it," he obliviously continued. "I mean, you sure sounded convincin'. Almost had _me_ fooled. But I know you were just thinkin' of the mission. You knew we needed a place to sleep 'til morning so we'd be bright eyed and bushy-tailed to face the day. Right, May?"

"Yeah, whatever," said the girl, her ardor cooling as fast as the night air.

May waded through the straw until she came to the opening that led outside to the barn's suspended hoist, choosing that place because it had the most ambient moonlight available.

May bent down to grab some hay and noticed an ache in her arm. As she began piling more hay together to make more comfortable sleeping mounds, Dewey crawled over to her.

"Is that what you women call 'nesting instinct?'" Dewey quipped as he began to take off his vest and shirt.

"Ha, ha," May replied. "Ugh, I must have hurt my arm when I passed out in that saloon."

She was about to explain further when she glanced over at Dewey and stopped in mid-speech.

She figured he was worked hard while in servitude, but she never had the pleasure of seeing the _results_ of that hard work up close and personal.

His upper body and torso weren't so much toned, as sculpted. In the moonlight, his smooth skin glowed and he looked, for all the world, like a polished, mahogany statue come to life.

If May had words to say at that moment, they decomposed into a mush of lustfully incoherent gibberish.

"Sorry about that," Dewey said as he took a stretch, allowing May to watch his muscles roll and bundle in intriguing ways. "I should've waited until you were done, but I just wanted to lay down and rest."

"A work of art," she said under her breath.

"Hmm?"

"Uh...I was telling myself...to _work my arm_," she clumsily fibbed. "When we find my parents, I don't want to get slowed down by injuries."

"Good point, and I'll see if I can find a cart while we're on the road tomorrow," Dewey said.

As soon as he turned around to lay his shirt and vest down on a set aside patch of hay, May saw his back, and the spell was horribly broken.

His muscled back bore the grim advertisement of his servitude, the destructive, haphazard scores of the lash. Time had made the wounds pale and puffy, but their sheer number horrified May.

"Oh, my God! Dewey!" she couldn't help but gasp.

Dewey turned back to her with a start. "What? What's wrong? You hear somethin'?"

"Your back. I'm...I'm so sorry." May bowed her head in both regret at his condition and in shame for reacting thus. It was the life they were born into, after all. It shouldn't have taken her breath away so easily like it had, but it did.

If old wounds like his could shock her this badly, what would become of her when they finally reached her grandfather's mansion, with all the trouble _that_ would entail. The hanged woman in the field still haunted her, sometimes.

"Oh. That," Dewey replied, giving her an understanding smile. "Just some...Labor negotiations that went bad, that's all."

"Your old master...did this to you?"

"Well, he wanted me to do something I didn't particularly care for. You know how it goes. I guess he needed me too much not to kill me. Lucky me."

May didn't think, she just acted on an instinct to nurture, tentatively reaching out and gently touching the criss-crossing scar tissue.

"Oh, Dewey," May whispered. "I wish I could make all of this go away,"

Dewey bowed his head upon contact with her touch. The tenderness was like nothing he had ever felt. No mere dalliance with some anonymous girl he met in his travels, this was truthful, honest, loving, and therefore, frightening.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked."

"Yeah. Nothing you could've done, girl. Don't beat yourself up over it."

May's eyes sparked upon hearing that. She was preparing to go to sleep when a strangely sympathetic, yet naughty notion crossed her mind. She turned Dewey around and held his hand up to her.

"Feel here," she told him as she placed his hand firmly on the region of her chest just above and between her right and left breast. Inside, she felt her heart hammer.

Dewey felt it, also, though the awkward situation had him surprised, to put it mildly.

"Y'know, May, you don't _have_ to have me feel you up to make me feel better, but it does help!"

May had to smile at that as she explained. "No, Dewey. Feel that dip? That dent? It's a scar. Grandpa shot me once. He was cleaning his gun and it went off while I was dusting one day."

Dewey gave a sympathetic whistle and May suddenly felt like a proud veteran in a sad war.

Dewey, for his part, began to soften a bit inside. It was strange, due to her unorthodox action, but a connection suddenly blossomed in him deeply. _She_ understood. She _knew_ what it felt like to _endure_ a family that. He finally, truly, felt like opening up to her.

"My old master was so mean," he told her. "One time, when I was a kid, I heard a song that I loved so much that I sang it for days. Then one day, he beat me up, just for the peace and quiet. Wanna feel where he broke my arm?"

May felt around the offered forearm, noticed a scar, and felt a thick deformation along the bone where the ends healed.

"I got that beat," she said. "Check this out."

May turned her back to him and pulled down one shoulder of her dress, and then the other, bringing her neckline down and exposing her upper back.

"Feel all around there," she instructed him.

Dewey obeyed her, his fingertips lightly roving over the distressing number of tiny divots that peppered the surface of her back.

"Aunt Carolina's ten-year old's birthday party. The theme that year was Manifest Destiny. Guess who was the Cowboy and who was the Indian?"

"That doesn't sound too bad," he shrugged.

"You obviously never heard of _arrows_ before," she said wryly.

"Ouch! Wait a minute. You were the _Cowboy_?"

May chuckled. "Surprised, huh? Who knew Grandpa was such a kid at heart when it came to children's games. One minute, I'm serving cake to the other kids, the next, he suggests to my mom that I'm to be dressed up like Hopalong Cassidy, and get shot at by the Sioux Nation. I'll give 'em this, some of those rug rats had pretty good hand-eye coordination, because I made sure I was a _very_ moving target before they managed to hit me."

May watched Dewey tense with indignation.

"I can't believe she'd do that to you. What kind of mother _was_ she?"

She squeezed his shoulder, hoping her touch would be enough to calm him and make him understand.

"Don't hate my mother for what she did, Dewey. She tried to make sure that my brothers and I worked as long as we could in the mansion, to keep us safe. But Grandpa had her trapped, and if she didn't let things go the way he wanted, it might have been much worse for me. I know it killed her inside to see that happen to me, but I understand why she had to do it. She had too much to protect back then: my father, little Curtis and Huey, and me. The family Grandpa never knew and couldn't know."

"I wish you hadn't shown me all that. I don't like seein' you hurt," he said with regret.

"I didn't want you to think that you were alone in all this," May said quietly. "I wanted you to know that I'm here for you, Dewey, and that you were right."

"About what?"

"About what you said earlier at the picnic. About living life for today, because we might not have another chance, tomorrow."

"Well," Dewey said proudly. "I _do_ try to live by that particular sentiment-"

"I want to go all the way with you," May said nervously without preamble.

Dewey froze in shock and truly regretted opening his big mouth back at the picnic. He simultaneously felt like someone who was blessed with far more than he could handle, and at the same time, didn't want to do anything that even remotely seemed like he was going to take advantage of her.

"May…_Cher_, you don't have to do that," he told her carefully, as if trying to talk her down from a ledge. "Besides, we'll make it, somehow. You'll see."

"But that's just it," she countered. "You _can't_ see. _None_ of us can. There were times back there when I thought I'd never see another day, but you were there for me, Dewey. I don't think I could have made it this far without you."

May took a deep breath and summoned the courage to continue.

"I know there's a good chance I'll probably end up dead trying to get my parents back. But I don't want to die knowing that I could have had something special in my life _before_ then. So I'm saying, I want to have that special time with you. I want you to be my first."

"But, I don't wanna hurt-"

She gently silenced him with a trembling finger to his lips.

"It's okay," she whispered nervously. "I'm…kinda scared, too…but I trust you. So, just for tonight…don't say no."

It was then that she saw the uncertainty again, just like what she saw on board the _Plymouth_ that night before they kissed for the first time. The naked fear that shone behind his eyes. Uncommon, as it was unnerving.

Taking another deep breath, May calmed herself down and attempted to look at things from his perspective.

Perhaps it was too soon for _him_ in this relationship, such as it was. Maybe she was coming on too strong because of _her_ fear of what may come tomorrow. If that were so, then she knew she was clearly in the wrong.

May turned her face away, ashamed of her apparent wantonness.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to throw myself at you like that. I was just being selfish. I wasn't thinking about how _you_ might be feeling about all this. I'm so _stupid_. Forget I said anything."

They were alone and everything had felt right. May wanted him madly, but she had overplayed her hand. Was being on the road changing her? Making her wilder and stripping away the moral underpinnings she was brought up to have?

In her failure, her self-centeredness was exposed to him, yet she could still redeem herself, and give him the respect he was due. If she couldn't show him her love in the end, she would, at the very least, show him her maturity.

More shamed than weary, May turned from him to lie down on her mound, but was stopped by Dewey suddenly grabbing her by the wrist.

"What? I-" she started to say in confusion.

As if he feared that she would run away if she moved fast enough, he quickly held her by her waist and kissed her, and didn't stop for a full minute.

When he finished, he looked into her bewildered eyes with conviction and concern.

"I won't lie and say I don't want this," he finally told her, his voice laced with the tint of remorse. "But who am _I, _May? Some Good Samaritan you bumped into on the street? Don't waste your trust on me, cher."

May stared at him, wondering where this was coming from.

"Why?"

Dewey ignored her, looking away. "Just give your trust to a better man."

May gave him a look of steel. She didn't understand what he was hiding from, or what he was keeping from her, and she told herself that she would confront him on that matter soon enough. But right now, on this night, that didn't matter one bit.

She wanted him. _Now_. He had already proven his trustworthiness in her eyes, and she now used her intuition and his past actions to be the compass that guided her into the decision she now leapt into.

She leaned forward and kissed him back with as much hunger as he had, and said, looking back fiercely into his eyes, "I _found_ that man."

She took him by the hand, guiding him as they both laid down, settling in the soft embrace of the straw in the serene darkness.

May's mind tried to wrap around the impossibility of the moment. She had dreamed of this. Studied every imagined scenario on it. Talked secretly to her few girlfriends about it. Wanted to even corner her mother and ask her how it was _her_ first time.

But all of it was smoke. Nothing compared to this. This time was her shining jewel.

Adrenaline and anxious energy flavored every fervent kiss, as they panted, moaned, wrestled and grappled in the straw with a speed that bordered on the predacious.

Sometimes, May would desperately break off to breathe, only to have Dewey seize the moment and attack the base of her soft, inviting throat and shoulders with deep kisses and nibbles, like a wild wolf, causing a lusty gasp to cry from her.

Dewey would lock onto May again for a kiss, and have her built-up passion for his touch be so strong, that it felt as though she was trying to consume the very _life _out of him through her moist French kisses.

His trousers were wiggled and kicked away while he still held a lamprey-like attachment to her lips, and it wasn't long after, that May finally slinked out of her blue dress, like a snake shedding a tight skin, and tossed it aside.

It took everything May had not to _sing_, as his probing fingers caressed, ran over, and dove into the smooth plains, hills and valleys of her young body. Jolts of sensation flashed through her spine like erotic lightning.

It was struggle for her not to lose herself so deeply, that she couldn't take advantage and record her voracious, tactile explorations of Dewey's masculine terrain. The broad country of his chest, the mountain ranges of his strong shoulders and arms, and, to her hidden, fearful delight, the feel of his marshaling timber.

As the moon silently passed over the night sky, marking the rhythm and measure of their ardor, Dewey panted slyly, "So…want me to kiss that sore arm of yours, and make it better?"

With May's moan in the affirmative, he gradually stitched slow kisses all along her shoulder, then to her tender forearm. And then he left her arm all together.

It wasn't until she felt his eager, hot mouth on her body again, a few moments later, and a good deal _lower_, that shetook a moment from blushing to comment on the situation.

"Well," she said, gasping happily. "At least my arm doesn't hurt anymore."

The morning sunlight flowed slowly across the vast Virginian farmland, touching one particular farm with its warming munificence.

"Those people must've had a real roof-raiser in the barn last night," the farm's owner, John Phillips, mused while he ate his breakfast and read his newspaper in the kitchen of his farmhouse.

His wife of twenty-one years, Dolores, momentarily stopped her intense searching throughout the kitchen to ask, "Really? How d'ya figure?"

"I couldn't get a lick of sleep last night," he answered. "I never heard so many 'Oh, my God's' and 'Oh, Lord, yes's' in my life. Must've been nothing short of supernatural going on in there."

"Well, I knew lending that colored reverend the use of our barn was a good thing, John. Do good to others and good will be returned to you, I always say."

John nodded behind his newspaper. "Mmm. By the way, woman, what are you looking for? Your good looks? I have to say you lost that a long time ago." He gave a horrendously hacking laugh.

"Guess that was about the same time you lost your virility. Must have been an inside job, huh, Limp Dick?" she retorted easily.

Farmer John put down his paper and cracked a lecherous smile at that. "Mmm, you know you make me hot when you're all mean and nasty like that, girl."

"Oh, you. Stop it. You're making me blush," his wife said, waving him off. "I wanted to make a cherry cobbler, but I can't, for the life of me, find that bowl of cherries I set out."

She went over to the open kitchen window and checked the sill again. It was empty and it was becoming more and more perplexing and frustrating to her.

"Where are my cherries?" she yelled to no one in particular, as her husband resumed his reading. "Somebody must've stolen the cherries. Who stole my _cherries_?"

Across the property, John's wife's voice was carried along in the morning air. Since their farmland was miles away from anyone, her shrill voice blasted strong and clear without fear from any neighbors' reprisals.

Yet ears were nearby to hear her.

Up in the loft of the Phillips' barn, two lovers were enjoying a breakfast of pilfered cherries in a bowl between them.

May cuddled in the depths of Dewey's arms as she plucked a cherry from the bowl and slowly placed it in her boyfriend's mouth. With a chuckle, he gently reciprocated the gesture.

Nude, but coincidentally covered strategically with hay on their private parts and across May's breasts, they comfortably laid on their hay mound, relaxing in each other's company, and lazily pulling loose strands of hay from their hair on occasion.

"Where are my cherries?" they heard the farmer's wife yell off in the distance, but they paid it no mind. Hidden in the barn, and taking advantage of whatever they could find together, they felt like a pair of clever cats who lorded over everything they saw.

"Mmmm..._I_ know who stole the cherries," May said with a seductive smile to Dewey, stroking his chest with a casual, circling finger.

"Good _Moaning_," Dewey quipped softly.

"You weren't so bad, yourself, stud," May replied.

"You're too kind. And speakin' of studs, I hope we didn't keep Vince awake with all our tusslin' last night."

From far below on the bottom floor, Vince could be heard, saying, "You did."

May dismissed Vincent's complaint, calling out with a playful scoff. "You know you liked hearing us, you hopeless romantic."

"The whole of this _county _could hear the two of you last evening," Vincent retorted with a cynical snort.

"Aw, don't mind that ol' prude," Dewey told her. "You were glorious last night, cher.

"Aw, thanks, Dewey. I have to tell you, it must have been a full moon last night, because you were such an _animal_. My back's still sore from all of those scratches you left on me."

She settled deeper into Dewey's embrace, not seeing the uncomfortable glance he gave.

"Well, cher, about that full moon…"

"Hmm?" asked May, not hearing him clearly in his arms.

"Nothing," he said quickly.

"Well, we really should be getting a move-on, and all. If we take the main road this morning, we should be, at least, halfway towards Lynchtree by early evening, with any luck," she said.

"Aw, can't we stay a little longer, cher?"

May popped a few more cherries into her mouth and then stood up, arms akimbo.

"No way, Dewey. We have to get to Lynchtree. I still have my family to save."

Dewey sat awestruck by the vision of May's nubile body radiant in the sunlight that shone through the hoist opening of the loft.

In the dark of night, her body held its secrets in shadow, discovered more by touch than sight. In the clearness of the new day, every wonderful, curvy, feminine detail was open to him, and it became so easy to fall in love with her all over again.

"All right, all right. You win," he conceded with a stretch. "It's a good thing you're so cute when you're resolute."

When May walked by him to gather her clothes, he reached out and gave her a playful slap on her backside, eliciting a satisfying squeal from her.

Vincent, hearing the commotion and laughter above him, sighed in frustration.

"Are you mounting her _again_? For God's sake, man, at least lean her against a wall so she can rest."

The farm receded in the distance as the trio walked past a graveyard on the way back to the main road that was closer to town, engaged in spirited conversation to pass the time.

"Once again, I must congratulate you both on a stellar debate session last evening," Vincent scoffed as he pricked his ears. "May, your use of the Ruth Westheimer Strategy to counter Dewey's bold Kinsey Maneuver was particularly stirring."

Up ahead, May, walking beside Dewey as she led Vincent along by his reins, laughed snidely at his comment.

"That's hilarious, Ken'l Ration. I can see now why horses are called _nags_."

"I'm hardly nagging. I'm just making a _pointed _observation," the horse said with a wicked grin.

"That's fair," May retorted. "I think I'll make one, too. Go sit on a thorn bush."

"Why? So I can walk like you are now?"

Dewey, who had walked further ahead to avoid the verbal catfighting, shook his head as they traded quips.

"This is gonna be a _long_ walk," he said to himself.

Unbeknownst to him, however, as he marched up the road, a white square of paper worked its way out of his back pocket from his walk and fell soundlessly to the ground.

May, finishing her talk with Vincent, turned her attention from him to the road ahead and saw the folded paper before her. Giving in to her bibliophilic impulses and sheer curiosity, she reached down and picked the paper up from the road.

Stopping, she opened the letter and read.

_They say a working man is only as good as the tools he uses. I live by that. You lived by that, as well, just without you knowing it._

_I once told you long ago that if you didn't help me in my new profession, I would have your mother killed, and with that, you would have done your mammy proud. If she were ever in danger to begin with._

_Rest assured, boy, your mammy's fine, and the only reason I even desired to tell you this is because I plan to retire soon._

_Mister Pewterschmidt's bounty on that half-breed family was so substantial, that I'd be a right fool to pass it up. His wealth will soon make this man abundantly wealthy, as well._

_As such, I am terminating your service to me. As I have no need for you anymore, you can most likely return to your mammy's shack, content in the knowledge that she remained safe, even though you helped me work like the devil to round up everyone else._

_For that, I am deeply indebted to you. May you ironically enjoy the freedoms that you helped to deny so many others._

_Your Former Owner_

_Capt. Theodore Hunter_

May ran the contents of the note through her mind, dissecting the meaning behind what was written.

"Theodore Hunter," she said to herself, finding the sound of those words so familiar in the back of her mind. Then it clicked.

"_The_ Hunter!"

Vincent, who was trying to read over her shoulder, asked, "May? What's wrong?"

A question Dewey, himself, endeavored to ask, when he heard her outburst, as well. He turned around and walked back towards the duo.

When he met up with her and was about to ask her what she said, May balled up her fist and put everything she had into a wild, clumsy haymaker that struck him hard enough to make him see multiple images and stagger back a step.

"What the hell was that for?" he yelped as he favored his sore jaw. "You already got your payback from what happened in the bar!"

May held up the unfolded note to his face. When his disorientation left him, he soon recognized its words, to his deep horror.

"You let that hunter…catch _our own people_?" May yelled back. "And then you helped that bastard kidnap my family, you _lying motherfucker_! Where is the hell is he now?"

Shame and fear immobilized Dewey, but his actor's brain, and so, his mouth, ran hell bent for leather to apologize.

"May! May, I'm so sorry. I know I should have told you a long time ago, but…I couldn't. I was so scared of what it was gonna lead to."

"So _that's _why you couldn't stay away from me," said May, her breathing labored by her screams and her punch's exertion. "You had to tie up your loose ends and round up the stray, huh? For _him_?"

"No, May, that's not why I stayed with you. I really fell in love with you. I wanted to help you, I swear."

May gave a bitter laugh at her seemingly abysmal naivety.

"I guess Grandpa Silas always gets what he wants, huh? Well, come on then. Let's go. I wouldn't want to cause any trouble."

Dewey was dumbstruck. "What are you talkin' about?"

"What do you think? I'm just going to stay here with you and count my blessings that I'm not there with them? My folks are probably halfway to the plantation by now, and they're gonna die when they get there. But I'm not gonna sit on my ass and let that happen. If I die, I die, but I'm gonna to try get 'em back first. So, let's go, _slave catcher. _You're still gonna help me get right into the belly of the beast. After that, you won't have to worry about me or your master, and you'll still get to go home."

She stomped over to Vincent, who stood quiet and troubled by the exchange, and reached into one of his saddlebags, pulling out a short length of rope. She tied one end of it around her wrists and tossed the rest of it to coil at Dewey's feet.

"There. It'll be the easiest catch you ever made," she said venomously.

May momentarily didn't know what would happen next, when Dewey reached down and picked up the rope. He tossed it back to her, and then followed it to stand up to her face, his features darkening in angry shame.

"Why don't you get off your high horse?" he yelled at her.

Taken aback, Vincent asked, "What?"

"You think I _wanted_ any of this?" Dewey continued. "I've got a family I wanted to keep safe, _too_, y'know? I've already lost two fathers and my mamma's all I've got left. I, sure as hell, wasn't gonna lose her, too. Besides, you read the letter. He _lied_ to me, May."

'_Would I have done the same?' _she thought somberly. _'If so, how _far_ would I have gone?' _

She exorcized the thought immediately. She told herself that she wouldn't have done what he did, and she wouldn't weaken and see things his way. _He_ had failed to remember that they all were in this together if they were to survive, and _he_ was completely and wholly involved in the kidnapping of her loved ones. Betrayal would not be tolerated.

"And that made it alright to help that asshole take my family away, or sell us _all_ down the river?"

Dewey rolled up his eyes in supreme exasperation. _'Couldn't she see what I was forced to do?'_ he wondered.

"What would you have wanted me to do, then, Miss Manners?"

"Say no!" she cried to him, as though it was the simplest thing in the world to conclude. "That hunter's just a man! One man. What's the worst he could have done? _Killed _you? What were the odds of that _not_ still happening to you? To your mother, or to any of us?"

"And yet, here you are, riskin' life and limb for _your_ people. What if _you'd _been given the same choice I had? What would you've said?"

"I'd have said no to him, and prayed for my family afterwards, because the price he'd asked for was too _high_. When the Devil gives you a deal, Dewey, you turn your back on it, no matter what it is, or you'll lose everything you ever loved."

"Nice speech, but you're a liar," spat Dewey. "Comin' all this way from Rhode Island? You proved that you love your family too much to give up on them. You'd do the same thing I did, so all that high-toned talk makes you a hypocrite in my book."

"You're wrong, Dewey. I didn't _use_ you to get all the way from Rhode Island, and I love them too much not to shame them with what you did. So what you did makes you a coward in _my_ book."

The two teenagers stood silent for a few moments. Tension wracking their bodies in the defense of their convictions, weighing all that was said.

Finally, it was all too much for May. She broke the silence with a tortured sob, and hid her face with her hand. She took a weak step back and spoke softly, tearfully, to him, with resignation and certainty.

"You've gotten all your going get out of me, Dewey. My trust, my affection, my help. Hell, I even gave you my body. You were my _first_. Do you have any idea what that _means_? You have no idea how much you've _hurt_ me."

She took a deep breath to better control her emotions. "I wish to God I could take it all back now, but you're not getting any more of my time _or_ my dignity. I still have a little of both left to do what I set out to do. If I never see you again…then I'll thank God for it."

May untied her hands and was prepared to walk down the long road by herself, but was stopped by the muscular body of a concerned Vincent blocking her path.

"May, wait. You don't have to go it alone. I'm sure Dewey didn't mean to hurt you. After all, he's just typical of a boy his age. Young and stupid. This whole trip has been an emotional roller-coaster ride from the beginning, I'd wager. Please, let's just talk this out and keep our fellowship."

May heard his pleading words, and for a moment, she stopped to think. And thinking allowed her to count off all the good things she thought she knew or liked about Dewey. She stole a glance at his forlorn self standing off to the side of the road, silent, guiltily introspective and utterly defenseless.

Then she thought of the letter and the myriad of unknown souls he helped to consign to their return to servitude, or death. Dewey was a traitor to his race, no matter the reason, or how logical it sounded in his ears.

Coupled with the horrifying fact that he was complicit in the peril and murder her family now faced, gave her all the impetus she needed to turn her heart to stone.

Let him dine on ashes alone. She had her own destiny to meet and she would show him how one met it. Honorably, clearly, and without much reservation.

"I'm sorry, Vincent, but this is too important for me," she told him in a breaking voice while she patted his broad neck comfortingly. "And it's way too dangerous to do this with people I can't trust. But thank you, Vincent, for all your help. If it's any consolation, you were a better ride on the road, than he was off it."

She turned to see a crushed Dewey one more time, and then she quietly ran off down the road, lest he see her break down completely.

The boy and the horse sadly watched May receding at a fair pace, having stopped jogging after a number of yards, and was now walking with purpose farther and farther up the cemetery road.

"Why are you standing there?" Vincent hissed at him with reproach. "You know it's a fool's errand. Go after her, you idiot."

"I wanted to make up for what I did by helping her get her folks back, Vince, but I knew I'd wreck everything by keepin' things from her, and I did," Dewey said with a heavy, heartbroken sigh. "Now, she don't want to have anythin' to do with me. I was tricked by that bastard, Vince. Bad, but I didn't think it was gonna be _this_ bad."

Vincent kept his eyes locked worryingly on May as she grew smaller in the distance, but he spared Dewey a condemning glance.

"Well, it certainly looks as though _someone_ on this trip has grown a pair. I'll tell you what. If she ever makes it back, and you're _still_ sulking on this road, I'll ask her if she can lend them to you," Vincent said with dry disdain.

Distractedly, Vincent found himself pricking his ears again. This time, he consciously listened.

Although the horse couldn't make it out, somewhere, something was making low noises in the grass.

"Don't look back," May chanted for the eighth time since walking past more of the crooked, yet resilient wrought-iron fences of the graveyard that spanned both sides of the road and seemed to stretch for about a mile or more without any intersection in sight.

It was quiet along the road. With her footsteps being the only thing heard and the headstone-speckled hills the only sight, the walk was both calming and eerie.

Feelings of betrayal and righteous anger were her fuel now, even though she had no idea what to do if she ever managed to get to the plantation. But she told herself that she would carefully cross that bridge when she came to it.

Dark, ugly thoughts about Dewey, as dark as the crows and ravens that rested on the burial ground, crowded her mind, making it more of a maelstrom of conflicting emotions than normal.

She hated this Theodore Hunter for stealing her family away. She hated Dewey for the secrets he kept from her, and she hated the boy for the love he elicited from her. She felt so weak and foolish to trust in him or her emotions.

The clear shots of firearms that rang from behind her, stripped all memories of the last few minutes away, as May spun around to face the dire sound with her heart in her throat.

With eyes bleary from crying and the sheer distance before her, May had some trouble focusing on what was happening back up the road.

Wiping her eyes clear, she could still make out the white, equine body of Vincent rearing fearfully away from the silhouette of one person, while two others closed around another body in the center.

_Dewey?_

When the two figures rose again, the central figure was lying sprawled in the dirt.

"Damn it, Dewey," May whispered anxiously.

She had thought of running blindly back up the road to thwart whatever trouble was befalling her friends, but the gunfire she heard earlier made her think better of it.

Yet, despite her heated words to Dewey, she couldn't fight the impulse to worry about him, even fear for him. They had faced death together, and turning her back on him now pricked at her conscience with a white-hot needle, as she desperately looked around for some way to get in closer to see what was happening.

She soon found it.

A few feet back, a section of fence was dislodged by settling earth below it, creating an opening in the otherwise near-uniform length. Running to it, May squeezed through and then began trotting cautiously among the tombstones, monuments and old trees, back towards the fray.

Moving closer now, she could see through the bars of the fences, the two figures load what was clearly a badly beaten and senseless Dewey, into a waiting horse-drawn cart.

Vincent was nowhere to be seen. It looked as though the horse had managed to escape being shot, for which May was grateful.

Stopping at a wide headstone, she hid behind it and focused her sight on the assailants, who, to May's dawning surprise, looked strangely familiar to her.

True, they wore different clothes and carried ample firepower on their person, but there was something she could almost _remember_ about the way they carried themselves.

The cocksure way the smallish man in the closecut hair and perpetual scowl, who scared off Vincent, walked, that bordered on the farcical.

Or the way the other two who had lifted and carried Dewey to the cart, pulled and struggled with the relatively light load as though they were bickering amongst themselves as to who should have been given the honor to dump him in first.

The scowling man looked about, across the cemetery and down the road, as though he wanted to make sure that they were undisturbed.

May took everything in, keeping as quiet as the grave she crouched behind. Her mind tried to come up with scenarios to save Dewey, each one more tragically foolhardy than the last.

In fact, May was so deep in rumination, that she didn't know that she was leaning too hard against the top of the tombstone she was peering over. The slab, and May, fell over with a loud thud.

Across the fence, the small, scowling man was about to mount his horse, when he heard the sound of marble on sod and looked past the nearby section of fencing, into the graveyard, to see a black girl trying to extricate herself from off the wayward grave marker. His face looked like a smiling hatchet when he grinned at his improbably great fortune.

"Hey, you knuckleheads," Joe called out to his comrades behind him. "Look at this! We get ta bag a double-header today!"

"Oh, boy! Oh, boy!" said Murray, gleefully.

"You want back up?" asked Garry after closing the rear panel of the cart's bed.

Joe mounted quickly while keeping his rapacious eyes on a fleeing May.

"Nah! You two keep that guy on ice," he ordered them. "This won't take long."

May cursed her bad luck and lapse of good judgment in coming back to investigate, as she ran further into the depths of the cemetery, zigzagging between the graves and weathered, angelic monuments, until she found and hid behind an ancient mausoleum that dominated a rise that gave her a good field of vision.

Leaning against the back wall, she tried to catch her breath, and contemplated how seriously unlucky this all just became. Of all the people to have a run-in with, it had to be those three detestable slave catchers. What were the staggering odds that those violent clods would track them?

Whether by accident or diabolical design, May only knew she had to keep her distance from them. They could still be holding a grudge from their time on the _Plymouth_.

She snuck past the side of the building, and gave a peek from around the corner ahead, looking back out from where she ran, and hoped that the relatively high fence could keep The Three Stupids from coming in.

Upon seeing Joe and his horse fly over the fence in a leap that would have made The Headless Horseman proud, that hope died in May's heart as she ran back to the rear of the building.

Looking beyond the masoleum, May could see only rolling, green hills dotted with headstones and little else. With such a lack of cover, running out there was folly, but she knew she couldn't stay exposed here for long, either.

Desperately, she looked out again, but this time she noticed a detail she missed earlier. There was an old oak shielding several graves in its broad shade. If she could somehow make it to that tree, she would be that much safer.

Hearing the slow, approaching sound of hoof beats on the grass, she used that to give her the motivation she needed to break though her fear and run the course to the oak, working to make sure she kept the mausoleum between herself and the slave catcher.

The tree was so close now, so tantalizingly close, and she fiercely fought the urge to look behind her as she ran, but eventually, she reached the tree and scrambled around it.

With her body shaking from fear and exertion, May peered around the bulk of the oak back to the mausoleum, to see the horse finally appear and walk aimlessly around the back of the building, riderless.

"Where did he go?" she whispered to herself, before she gave a horrified shriek, as a hand gripped her shoulder from behind, spun her around, and pushed her up against the tree.

Standing in stern triumph in front of her, was the leader of The Three Stupids.

"So, you didn't think you'd see us again, did ya," Joe growled in angry satisfaction. "Well, now, we even the score."

May could see the made fist straining the leather glove he wore as he slowly, one could say, lovingly, raise it to strike her down.

She bolted off to the side, but in a flash, Joe kicked his foot out and tripped her.

May crashed hard into the turf, but recovered enough to turn around in time to see Joe pounce on top of her, bearing his weight down upon her squirming body to pin her.

"Now where were we?" he asked snidely. His positioned legs and one hand held her down, while he prepared to beat her with his free hand, now turned into a wrecking ball of a fist.

May struggled and fought vainly for non-existent leverage, but, in the end, she knew she was trapped. Dewey was incapacitated, or worse, and Vincent, for all intents and purposes, had fled the area. She was alone, as she had always feared.

She didn't know why she said what said next. Perhaps it was nerves due to her fear, or maybe she just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her helpless and it was actual bravado on her part.

Whatever the reason, May finally stopped squirming and asked the bounty man with a nervous smile, "Wait! Wait! You wouldn't hit a girl with glasses on, would you?"

Joe paused for the briefest moment before reaching into a jacket pocket, pulling out a pair of wire spectacles and putting them on with gusto.

"You bet your ass, I would," the man said.

May was mercifully knocked unconscious by the first two blows.

But Joe didn't finish until his fifth.


	13. Chapter 12

_Chapter Twelve-_

The quiet, clinking sounds of iron chains on cold stone and the soft, bitter weeping of caged family members soon to be separated, gradually caught May's attention after she slowly awoke from her beating, several hours later.

A dull, throbbing ache spread out from one side of her face and she found looking down at the shackles securing her wrists difficult. Her vision was blurry and seemingly one-sided.

She slowly lifted one of her chain-weighed hands to her face and gave a tentative touch to its sore side in order to get her dour answer.

Her left eye was swollen almost closed thanks to one of Joe the slave catcher's pummels, and yet her spectacles suffered only a slight crack to its corresponding left lens, possibly due to getting moved around by his fist while punching her.

The salty taste of a cut lip helped rouse her more into lucidity as she sat up straighter.

She looked around and took in her grim surroundings; a dim, dirty cell walled with mortared stone, pitted in places where the desperate would beat their iron cuffs and chains against the surface to remind loved ones that they were still around, for however long, or simply lash out in justified frustration and terror.

Turning to the sound of sobs coming from a dark, far corner of the chamber, May could see her cellmates. A huddling clutch of girls that were close to her age; the sad, frightened daughters of separated parents, who sat together in the gloom, in silent commiseration, as far from the cage's bars as possible.

"Where am I?" May asked the group in a whisper, and then pressed the issue when an answer didn't come quickly enough. "Hey! Where are we?"

A female slave in the throng, who looked less pensive than her sisters, spoke up in a cocky tone. "You're in the big house, convict!"

That took May aback. "Huh? I-I'm in jail?"

The slave chuckled to herself. " Nah. I'm just kiddin' with ya. You're in a slave shed in Virginia, and it's a good bet you're gonna be sold off in a little while. Sucks to be you. Hell, sucks to be _me_!"

May said nothing at that moment. She wanted to just sit in the semi-dark and digest that statement in silence and felt surprised _that she felt surprised _at the turn of fortune she had. It was a stupid question she had asked, she knew. Every slave knew fairly well where he or she was going to end up after getting caught by slave catchers.

May was close to asking another question, more for conversation's sake, when she heard a male voice ask a question of his own from outside the cell.

"Wait! Wait! Don't tell me I missed the prison lesbian scenes!" the voice asked. May figured out the identity quickly enough.

May whispered in recognition. "Dewey? Is that you? I thought those guys killed you back there."

Across from her, in his own cramped, shared cell, Dewey looked slightly smug on the floor.

"Nope, but I can see you were worried about me, which ain't, at all, surprisin'."

May rolled her eyes to Heaven. _'Leave it to Dewey to play it cocky, even while waiting to get auctioned off_,_'_ she thought. Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

"Really? Because I was more worried about _Vincent_ than you."

"If you love him so much, why don't you marry him, then?" Dewey huffed quietly.

"Why not? He's probably a better lay than you, anyway," May retorted smarmily.

"Now I _know _you're just sayin' that 'cause you're mad," Dewey reasoned nonchalantly. Inwardly, her comment made him bristle. Not for the image of seeing his ladylove lying with a horse, but for the notion that the steed might actually out-perform him in the bed. Even _he_ had his pride.

"Whatever," May sighed in dismissal.

Dewey, sighing as well, changed his flippant tone to bury the hatchet, and asked a more somber and pertinent question.

"Speakin' of Vince. Did you see what happened to him? Do you know if he got away?"

"I think so," May said. "I didn't see him when I came back up the road."

Dewey stiffened in incredulity upon hearing that. "Why the hell did you do that? Didn't you hear all that gunfire and commotion goin' on? What did you think it was, another hootenanny?"

On the floor, May felt the shameful sting of her foolish actions return to strike her deeply in her pride, but she was determined not to let his chastising give him the upper hand in the conversation.

"I was worried, alright?" she blurted out, non-strategically. "Okay, I wasn't thinking and I snuck back up the road to see if I could help you, that's all."

"Fat lot a good _that_ did, girl," he scoffed hotly. "I was hopin' you'd get _away_ when they ambushed Vince and me. How are you gonna help your folks from where you are now?"

May was suddenly struck silent by the question; its logic was so unassailable. However much or little she may have felt about him now, he was right. Her actions did prove to be far too rash and, in the end, self-defeating.

Sadly, May stared blankly through the unyielding, unsympathetic bars, letting her regret melt away any forming, half-baked rejoinder from her troubled mind. She could feel the truth clearly branded into her soul. Her decisions may have set about the death of her family.

Dewey, who had been listening for a few moments for a response from May and heard nothing, softly called out to her, worryingly. He was already regretting being so hard on her just now.

He knew it was the anger of getting caught talking. His shame at hurting her earlier talking. His world-weary ego sought out a weapon to use against her punishing coldness and he wielded it with a deadly, thoughtless flair.

May thought to answer him, but something made that painfully difficult. Was it her own shame that kept her quiet? Made her feel like a punished little girl standing petulant in a corner? Was she angry with him for making her feel this way?

In the end, she made the choice to say something, anything. Being in one of the last places on Earth a black person ever wanted to be in, May didn't want hard feelings to exacerbate an already dire situation. She needed his presence to calm her and it wasn't too late to mend a bridge or two.

"Dewey…I…"

Upon hearing the sound of a heavy door being hastily unlocked and opened, the girls near May, and indeed, all of the slaves in their pens began to stand and walk reluctantly to the bars of the cages.

Initially, May had no idea why everyone reacted this way, but she soon figured correctly that she was in a situation where not doing what the other prisoners were doing would make her dangerously stand out, so she followed suit.

A white, heavy-set man carrying a ring of keys and flanked by two guards, waddled up the dusty aisle, glancing from one wide cage to the next, and then stopping between May and Dewey's paddocks.

The fat man turned back towards the doorway and called out, "Alright. You can come in now and take a look at what you like."

A young white couple, dressed in noticeable finery, strolled inside, also giving casual, dispassionate looks at the miserable captives within, and stopping where their host stood.

The man with the keys opened May's cage and gestured to the silent girls to march out in small groups to be personally examined. May, being the closest to the foremost group, had to exit with them and wait.

The young woman haughtily approached May and told her to turn around. When she did so, May couldn't help but jump slightly when she felt the woman pinch her legs and buttocks with a practiced hand.

"Hmm, she's short, but got good muscle tone," the woman appraised to her peers as she finished her goosing and straightened up. She then told May to turn around and face her again.

The moment May complied, the woman, without preamble, slipped her gloved fingers into the surprised girl's mouth.

May fought her embarrassment and the dark desire to suddenly bite this unpleasant woman's fingers off, remaining quiet while the woman checked around her teeth and gums.

"Stick out your tongue," the woman ordered May. May obeyed.

"Good width," the woman said to herself, as she finally stopped her probing.

The woman then reached out with a hand and held May's face by her chin, turning her head this way and that, out of curiosity. It wasn't long before she spotted the black eye beyond the cracked lens of her glasses.

"What happened to this one?" the woman asked the fat man.

Her host took a nervous, almost obsequious tone with the woman and said, "The slave catchers who brought her in roughed her up a bit. Guess she gave 'em a hard time or somethin'. I-If you're still somehow interested in her, I'd be more than willin' to bring down her starting bid, just to be fair."

The woman turned back to May, reading her shackles' identification tag and looking at her with a more approving eye.

"On the contrary, Mr. Daniels," she finally told him. "Obviously she shows an excellent capacity with regards to dealing with pain. She has some strength, and if it's true that she did give her capturers a run for their money, I dare say, she may have the most ideal stamina. Yes, I believe Chattel Number 16, here, shall prove most adequate to my...special needs."

The fat man, now seeing dollar signs in his eyes, began making a new pitch to increase his payday.

"Well, ma'am, if you like her, then I'm sure you and your husband may also take a likin' to this fella, here."

The man quickly opened Dewey's cage, reached in and brusquely pulled him out for all to see.

"This one was caught with her. The slave catchers said that he traveled with her on a boat and caused them all kinds of misery. As you can see, he's quite strong, young, and you can tell from his bright eyes that he has a sharp mind. Good for learning things on the fly."

The woman's husband approached the nervous Dewey, glanced around to the back of him, and gave his behind a squeeze that would have done a greengrocer proud.

"Mary," said the husband. "I do believe I'll fill him in nicely, uh, I mean, _he'll_ fill in nicely for…what I want. What do you say?"

Mary pursed her lips in thought.

"Oh, I don't know, Drew. The last one you bought didn't last all that long, remember?"

"I know, but that was because I had to overcompensate," he entreated. "He was much too old for my tastes and I simply rode him too hard. But I can see that this one's different. He's young and resilient. _Practically_ _virginal_."

Mary sighed and then turned to the fat man.

"Very well, Mr. Daniels. I suppose we could take them both off your hands. Try to sell these two off as a pair, would you? We'll be waiting when the auction starts. Come along, Drew. If we finish early today, we can pick out some new costumes for them to wear tonight."

"Oh, goody!" her husband cooed.

As the strange couple took their leave, the slaves were returned to their cells by gunpoint.

The fat man, Daniels, took happy, greedy glances at both cages on either side of him, saying to the stricken, "I don't know who you two are, but I'm gonna be able to afford a new house when all is said and done."

As he turned to leave them to their misery, he said in parting, "Oh, and if I were you…"

May and Dewey stood silent, waiting for him to finish his comment.

"I'd be in a cage, now wouldn't I?" he joked. With a wheezy chuckle, he left the building with his silent bodyguards in tow.

When the shed settled into a kind of shocked silence, following that disturbing tableau with the customers, May sat in her spot on the floor again, leaning against the cold wall, and pensively looking through the bars to address the again incarcerated Dewey.

"Why do I get the feeling that that lady's gonna want me to do more than just _housework_?" May asked.

Hearing her, Dewey said to May from his spot on the floor, "You might get off lucky."

"I'm more worried about getting _her_ off," May retorted.

"Well, I don't know about you, cher, but I think that husband of hers definitely wants to plow my back forty."

"Funny. I don't recall you feeling that way when you plowed mine the other night," May said cockily.

"That's different. Your back forty's way nicer to plow. It's some good country back there. " Dewey said with a grin.

"Thanks for the farm report," May quipped. "We have to get out of here, somehow."

"You're preachin' to the choir here, cher. It's too bad those two wanted us so bad, even _after_ she saw your black eye. Normally that sort of thing might hurt a sale, not help it. Now, with the bid already starting high, it might take us forever and a day to save up enough money to buy our freedom. And that's _if _they'll let us earn money on the side."

May sat up incredulously. The wealth of knowledge Dewey was displaying, even if it was just the inner workings of their wretched condition, stunned her. She knew she was practically a neophyte when it came to this particular state of affairs, as she was _born_ into bondage, not sold into it, but she had to wonder.

"How in the world do you know about all of this?" May asked bluntly.

Dewey slumped a little by the bars. "How else, cher? By living it," he said in wistful melancholy.

"You went through all of this before?"

"Yep, but it's a long story," he admitted.

"Oh, I think we might have time," May said simply.

"Okay, then," Dewey acquiesced as he got settled into a more comfortable position by the bars. "You remember when I told you that my mother was sold to pay for bibles?"

"Uh, huh."

"Well, she was already _married _at the time. I never knew her husband, except from what my mama told me of him, but I sometimes like to think that he could have been my pop, if things were better. Guess it's easy to get split up when Whitey decides that your marriage didn't mean anythin', anyway."

May moved closer to the bars. "I'm so sorry, Dewey."

"That's okay, cher. Anyway, that bible salesman became her new owner and I was born to the both of them a year later."

"Did your father ever love you?" May asked softly.

"I suppose so," he sighed. "It's a strange thing when your pop owns you and your mama. Anyway, it didn't last long, though. By the time I was six, my father died, and I was sold off to some rotten tobacco plantation. Didn't stay too long there, either."

"Didn't do a good enough job?" May asked.

Dewey shrugged. "Naw. There was a fire and the whole crop was burned. Worse case of second-hand smoke death in the state. I was one of the survivors."

"So, a few months later, I was sold again to a Cajun Army officer, as a birthday present. I suppose it was better than getting' lung cancer, but I truly missed my mama. After a while, I kinda picked up his accent.

May gave a smirk in the dark. "So _that's_ why you sound like the Louisiana Board of Tourism."

"Well, now, ain't we funny?"

"I'm sorry. Go on."

"Anyways," Dewey continued. "He had himself a reputation as a real tough soldier on the field. But the one thing he loved more than killing Mexicans, was the theater. When he wasn't slappin' leather, or _me_, he would head for the local music hall. Since I was his slave, I went where he went, both on military camps and at the theater. _That's_ where I got the itch to be an actor."

"I never been to the theater before," May told him. "What's it like?"

Dewey's eyes shone with a bittersweet recollection that could be seen even from where she was.

"Oh, May, you should see it. The music halls, the songs, the acting...Whenever I could sneak a peek into the auditorium from the lobby, and see the actors on stage and hear them singin', my heart felt like it would just break. For a little while, I could forget who I was, y'know?"

May gave her own wistful smile at the emotions and the memories that elicited them. "Yeah. It's just like when I write something that's all my own. It feels like flying."

"True dat. And I wanted that feeling, more than anythin'. Since Cap'n Hunter collected songbooks and programs from all the plays he went to, I tried to learn the words and songs in secret. At night, I would recite them and sing them to myself, but, after a while, he must've heard me, 'cause he came up one day and told me all about it."

Flashbacks to the scars she saw on his back prompted May to ask him, tentatively, "Oh, no, Dewey. Did…did he punish you?"

"I thought he would, but he just walked me through the barracks and brought me up to some kinda makeshift stage. He told me that he knew that I was learning the plays by heart and wanted to entertain the other officers by having me perform some scenes from them."

"Really? Well, that was great!" May said, relievedly.

"I know, right? I mean, I didn't know what to feel. Scared? Happy? But I did as I was told, and that day I did perform."

"At first, the officers didn't know what to expect. Some laughed and jeered, but strangely, some just sat and listened, and so I focused on them. When it was done, I thought I would get thrown from the stage, but I actually got applause. Just like what the _white_ actors got every night. You were right, May. It _did_ feel like flying."

"Pretty soon, my owner became a very popular fella around camp, and so was I. The little boy actor! I was allowed to read, but only scripts and song sheets. Hey, beggars can't be choosers. But life was gettin' better for me. At least, for a while."

"What happened?" she asked.

"Well, it seemed that the captain had his share of enemies, particularly those who served under him. Guess they hated his newfound popularity. So, during one of my performances for the troops, they made their move."

"I don't know all the particulars, but Cap'n Hunter said he was blamed for stealin' and was bounced out of the army hard. As his slave, I had to follow him and leave my dreams of acting behind. Or so I thought."

"To keep body and soul together, he used his military training and his acquaintances with shady people he knew to become a bounty-hunter and slave catcher. He was pretty good with devices, so he took apart an ol' stagecoach, added other things to it, and called it _The Hessian_, traveling all across the south, picking up jobs here and there."

"As the coachman, I drove the coach wherever he needed it and helped take care of it, which was necessary, since I could only sleep, shackled, on top of it, or when the weather was bad, underneath it, when we were on the road."

"Damn. That's fucked up," May commiserated.

"But the worse thing that happened was when he came up with a way to smoke escaped slaves out of hiding."

"One day, he listened to me sing while I was cleanin' the coach and he came up to me with this wild-eyed stare. He told me that he could use my talent on his hunts. At first, I didn't understand. Then he told me that if I could act like an escaped slave, eventually other escapees might take me into their confidence and give me information about others. I could then tell him and he could round 'em up."

May stiffened. "So _that's _how he did it. And the escapees wouldn't have ever known it was a trap until it too late."

"Tell me about it. I couldn't _believe_ what I was hearing. I had to refuse. If I remained a slave for the rest of my days, it would have been better than doing that. As expected, he made things pretty hard for me, and beatings were gettin' to be down right common, but I still refused."

"Then how did he finally make you do it?" May asked. "And how did he get your _mother_ involved?

"One day we just happened to visit the town where my mother lived. And right then and there I realized that that captain was the devil himself."

"He still had my bill of sale when I was sold to him. He used that to track down the slave trader he bought me from and then from _him_, he figured out where my mama lived. He told me that if I didn't do as he said, he would have her killed. I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't take that chance. So, I said yes."

"From then on, 'til now, I would use disguises and play-actin' to falsely gain my brothers' and sisters' trust, and then help gather 'em up. Just on the _hope_ of keeping my mama alive."

"You asked me how I know so much about all of this. This is nothin'. If I know _anything_ from all my livin' as a white man's slave, it's this. It's easy to trick people like us with terror, cher, because it's all around us."

With remorse, Dewey looked up to gauge May's reaction to his tale of woe. Inside, he felt the better for unburdening himself of such emotional baggage, but he was also disheartened by what he may have lost in the process.

May, for her part, didn't glared at him with her earlier indignation, but, instead, looked sadly introspective in the gloom of her cell.

May looked up to him and said, "You're right. It _was_ a long story."

Dewey shrugged forlornly, watching May get up from the cold floor and brush her dress clean with her hands.

She walked over to the bars of the cell and took a cautious look down the aisle to the main door. It still remained closed.

"Besides, it all makes sense now," she told him, taking a step back in satisfaction of not being walked in on by the guards or their rotund employer.

"What does?"

"Everything." said May. "My beating and being stuck in this place, even you reminding me of my screw-up on the road. It all made me realize one thing. I have to be even more focused on my mission. It's not over, yet."

"Amen, sister," a teenaged girl in the corner of the cell proclaimed aloud.

Now it was Dewey's turn to bolt into a standing position near his bars. "What?"

"I'm sorry, Dewey," May said through the bars. "But I can't just sit here and worry about how I got here, or worry about what we may or may not have anymore. I don't have the time."

"You tell him, honey," another girl from the corner said, as more of the female captives listened in on the conversation to take their minds off of their fate, and began moving out of their protective huddle.

May appreciated their comments, but ignored them while she continued her entreaty. "I heard your side of the story, and I can understand why you did it. I am truly sorry that you had to go through all that, but my family's important to me, too. If you want to help me, that's great, but I _am_ gonna bust out of here and find my family. Come hell or high water."

"And what if-" Dewey began to say, before a muscled giant of a teen, flanked by his handcuffed comrades, moved up behind him, and gave Dewey a supportive clap on the shoulder.

"You know, before we heard the whole story of why you sold us out, we were gonna wait until nighttime and choke you to death in your sleep," the intimidating-looking youth told Dewey matter-of-factly. "But it's like what Jail Bait said, we understand why you did it. So it's cool, bro." The giant's friends also gave their concurrences.

Dewey, momentarily taken aback from the interruption, the stark honesty of his new friend, and the close call he just learned about, politely smiled in acknowledgement, turned back to the bars in front of him, and started again.

"And what if you're too late?" he asked. "What then? At least let's both try to escape and start a new life together."

"Oh, that is so _romantic_, girl," another girl spoke up, smiling. "Y'know, my boyfriend wanted to do the same thing with me. If you're lucky, Boo, over there, won't get his foot cut off like _he_ did."

May sighed nervously at that and answered back. "Listen to me, Dewey. I said that I understand what you did, and I do, but you really put me through a lot. Being unconscious gave me a lot of time to think about things, and I'm thinking that...maybe I forgive you, but I don't think I can trust you. No offense."

"Ohh, that's _cold_, man," Dewey's tall cellmate whispered.

"Besides, I can't just up and run away with you. You only said all that because you were feeling guilty over what you did for your mother, and you think starting over with me will give you a second chance, somehow," May explained.

"Testify, girlfriend," a fourth girl called out from the distaff group. "You got his number."

Feeling the eyes of his anxious audience behind him, waiting with baited breath for his next reply, Dewey began to seriously wonder if May had, indeed, gotten his "number."

He glowered in May's direction, wishing he could stare down her bothersome, impromptu Greek chorus in the dimness of her cage. As far as he was concerned, they couldn't be sold off fast enough.

"Look, if you don't like me anymore, just tell me you don't want to see me anymore," he conceded with inner pain. "I'd rather hear _that_ than listen to you tellin' me how guilty I am. I certainly don't feel any better with you remindin' me."

"Well, dig on this," May quickly rejoined. "Despite what we may have done in that barn, I didn't come all this way just to make you feel good. I came out here for my folks. And until I know otherwise, they're alive and waiting for me. If you really want to be happy again, then you're gonna have to learn to forgive yourself for what you did."

A rising applause rang from every girl in the cell.

Despite the blush of exhilaration she felt from the display, she began waving down the girls' ovation. She was beginning to feel that she was being misconstrued, somehow.

"Wait a minute. Wait a minute, girls. I'm not trying to hurt him. I'm only saying all of this because I don't wanna leave this world with hate in my heart," May said solemnly.

"What are you talkin' about?" Dewey asked sharply. He didn't like the sound of that, and he didn't care who knew it.

"I told you." May said from the bars, calmly. "I'm not going back to being a slave again. I still have the knife strapped to my leg. In the middle of the auction, I'm going to try to escape."

The pang of fear that sprang from the thought of losing her felt like a spear transfixing Dewey through the heart. He quickly tried to look for signs of trepidation in her voice, a nervous movement in her stance, anything that could tip off her obviously logical hesitation in such utter self-destruction.

But he couldn't hear it the glacial composure of her tone, and he couldn't see it in the relaxed way she stood by the bars. It was maddening. It was frustrating, and it was terrible.

"How, girl? They'll kill you. It's suicide."

May looked at Dewey across the aisle that, for a time, seemed as though it separated them by a mile. Now, it seemed that the bars didn't even exist.

Fear of losing her family had opened the door within, and she had found her epiphany. It gave her the serenity that came from the clarity of having no other choice. A serenity Dewey easily, and sadly, recognized through his formative years as a battlefield slave. The tranquility that only a soldier could radiate when he finally embraced the certainty of his impending death.

Her calmness frightened him so.

"Only if I fuck up," May agreed with a fatalistic smile.


	14. Chapter 13

Chapter _Thirteen-_

The brightly painted warehouse-turned-store shone in the hot afternoon, gathering the usual, eager crowd of consumers to its broad doors. Wagons and carriages filled the wide lot before the building, their horses tied to evenly spaced hitches.

An affluent white family passed through the building's wide doorway, and was promptly met by a clerk who wore his smile as smartly as he wore his gray livery.

"Welcome to SlaveMart," he said brightly to them. "Don't forget our sale on field hand wear in our clothing aisle. 40% off."

The family acknowledged the worker with friendly nods and words of thanks before leaving the foyer and entering the spacious store proper.

Spanning the length and breadth of the superstore stretched a vast landscape of aisles and shelving showcasing specialized merchandise and various sundries for the dubious care and containment of the average slave.

Everything from monogrammed leg irons, shackles and collars, to rough-spun work clothes for field hands, better-tailored livery for house servants, and everything in between, could be purchased here.

Slicing bullwhips and riding crops, and the ointments used to ease the suffering their bites caused, could be seen in the front of the store, along with the usual pro-slavery literature and media one came to expect, such as _Better Hovels and Quarters_, _Collars Weekly, Breeder's Digest _and_ The Transatlantic Monthly, _

On the far left side of the building was an area dedicated to slave care, including a slave service center that handled injuries or did full, monthly medical check-ups, and an auction site with a permanent, amphitheater-style seating area encircling a broad, low stage. A back door off the side of the stage led to the store's only high-capacity slave shed.

A good number of buyers and couples began filling seats as the fat supervisor, Mr. Daniels, and his two armed guards led the next group of chained unfortunates out of the shed, and onto the stage.

A showing of five resigned slaves, two women, two girls, and a man stood sadly on the wide auction block, feeling every bit as though they were stepping forward onto their own private execution, while May and Dewey were put to the side of the block, to await their turn as a special sale in the auction.

May's stomach twitched in fear and anger as she saw first the women, then each of the two girls, both of them, twin sisters, and finally the man, get bided upon, and then taken away with no more sympathy for the rending of their families than for a condemned criminal. They would never see one another in life again.

Dewey's mind ran from one scenario to another concerning how he and May would live together after they were acquired. It was easy to think pragmatically when one counted milestones in one's childhood by when he was bought and sold.

With May, it was sure to be hard, at first, especially when it came to coming to terms with her family's death, but with time and a good scheme or two, she would become stronger, more survival-oriented, and therefore, more capable of being by his side longer.

With luck and a fistful of cash, they might be able to escape or buy their freedom, and then start a family of their own in the relative safety of the north, unencumbered by the threat of the lash or the dissolution of their starting kin.

Looking out into the audience and accidentally locking gazes with the eagerly grinning Drew while Mary, his wife, casually watched the innocent being taken away, Dewey glumly figured that it may be a long, _painful_ while before freedom would be open to him or May.

Drew and Mary keenly whispered to each other during the long hour, as more and more individual blacks and whole families were called up, were given offers on, and sold away piecemeal.

At some point after a particularly sad parting involving another man seeing his only daughter bought before he, himself, now broken with grief, was purchased, a store clerk carrying a tray that held a pitcher of lemonade and two full glasses, approached the couple.

"Sir? Madam? The gentleman in Seat 8 sends this pitcher of lemonade with his compliments," the clerk told them.

Drew brightened as the tray was placed on their table. "Oh, how divine! Please tell him we said thank you. Closing your heart to pity when purchasing slaves is such thirsty business."

"How true, how true," Mary agreed before taking a leisurely sip from her offered glass.

Despite the slow-motion horror show she saw before her as another group was paraded by her for inspection and bidding, May kept giving the most of her attention towards the front to the store.

Because of the elevation afforded her by the stage/auction block, she was relentlessly tantalized by the sight of people coming and going from the front doors.

The only thing that cried in the back of her mind louder than the chance of running out through those doors, was the desperate logic of taking her knife out and _threatening_ her way out. She knew no patron's charity would ever pave her way to freedom.

She furtively gave the side of her sheathed thigh a touch with her hand and shuddered nervously. Although she managed to put in some time to practice on the road, she never used a knife before in anger, yet she knew that she had to feel comfortable and secure with her weapon when the time was right, if ever.

Mercifully, at last, the march of the doomed stopped momentarily and the corpulent Mr. Daniels stepped up to the stage.

"Good ladies and gentlemen, our next item is sort of a pair, actually," he announced broadly, gesturing to the duo like a showroom model. "Take a good look at these two, people. They have a history of working well together, both are strong and hard-working, and, if you give 'em a few years, they'll produce strong, exceptional offspring for you."

Daniels allowed the audience time to mull over the prospects of the sale while he returned to the edge of the stage so as to be heard more clearly when he started the bid.

"For a modest bid, these two are an investment in the future," he reasoned to the patrons below. "So, let's start the bid for the pair at…900! 900! Who'll give me 900? 900, Ladies and gentlemen! Who'll give me 900 for these fine specimens? 900?"

A monocled man smoothly raised his hand. "950!"

"950! 950!" Daniels called out. "This a good investment, people! A good pair. Good breeding stock! Who'll give me 1,000 for this fine pair? 1,000? 1,000?"

"1,000!" said a dark-haired woman in a purple petticoat from under her broad sunhat.

Daniels grinned hungrily. "1,000 dollars! Ladies and gentlemen, this woman has a discerning eye! Definitely knows a good thing when she sees it! 1,000 dollars! Who'll give me 1,050? 1,050? Don't be shy! Don't miss out!"

Mary and Drew gave each other a knowing glance, confident, if not overly so, in their biding power.

"1,075!" Mary said casually, cozily basking in the disappointment and fuming stares of the outbid.

"Whoa!" Daniels exclaimed, his eyes genuinely shining with visions of filthy lucre. "1,075 dollars, people! What are you, asleep out there? What are you doing? Saving your money for church or something? Don't let this opportunity pass you by!"

Daniels took a quick stroll over to a pensive Dewey's side and held him firmly by the shoulders, giving him a slight, demonstrative shake to show off the teen's strength.

"Check out this body, people," he displayed. "That's serious torque. Loading? Lifting? Pulling and towing? He's good for any all-terrain work. Farming or construction work's a breeze for him, too."

He looked out at the faces of the people he tried to impress and felt he was loosing their interest fast. When times like that happened, he comfortably fell back on his one surefire pick-me-up. Sex.

He gave the women a knowing glance as he said. "For the ladies out there, you'll _really_ appreciate his chassis. He's got a great transmission and power steering, _if_ you get my meaning."

Despite the uncomfortable looks the men in the audience gave at the salacious thought, some of the women gave voice to their opinions with embarrassed giggles and imaginative thoughts of their own.

Daniels then casually stepped over to the uncomfortable-looking May, who felt every probing eye on her as though she hadn't had a stitch of clothing on.

"Then there's this little lady, here," he said proudly. "Compact, fuel-efficient model, not too bad on the eyes. Ladies, put her in your kitchen and you'll wonder how you did without her. Make her your new seamstress, or if you have a family, or planning to have one, make her your nanny. Have a crop that needs tending? Send her out there with confidence. Good for gardens, too. Culinary, domestic, or agricultural, she maybe small, but she can do it all!"

He then gave a lascivious smirk towards the men, some of them blue bloods, some of them, not so. But he knew, most, if not all of them were given to taking their liberties with the occasional helpless slave girl, or two.

"Oh, and gentlemen, as you can see, she's well built for those times when you'd like to…take her out for a little spin. Soft leather interior, great rear shocks, nice, tight suspension."

Daniels reached behind May and gave her a quick slap to her rear that made her jump slightly in surprise.

"And plenty of trunk space," he continued. "Don't waste your money on dockyard whores, just bid a little higher, and she's all yours!"

Now the scene was clearly reversed, with the men chuckling amongst their horny peers, and the women becoming more and more hard pressed to stay aloof and unperturbed by the display.

Daniels smiled easily now. He knew he had them completely hooked. "What do you say? 1,075, going once!"

Dewey stood, visibly crestfallen. Their sale was about to end with that creepy couple soon to be their proud owners.

He glanced over to see May trembling, looking back at him with a tragic mixture of terror, determination, and regret, as she surreptitiously clutched a handful of her skirt and slowly began pulling it up by inches, ready to swiftly unveil her leg, draw her blade, and seal her fate.

"1,075, going twice! So-"

"1,076!" said a deep, confident voice from the seating area.

A gasp was let loose all around, as all eyes, captive and free alike, turned to the dark-haired, lantern-jawed gentleman in a fine brown suit, sitting comfortably in chair number eight.

"The name's Smith," the man announced boldly. "Jonathan Sterling Smith. And I came to buy some slaves."

Mary waved over to Jonathan and graciously held up her half-finished glass in appreciation.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Smith. We didn't see you there, earlier. How's the family?"

"They're fine, Mrs. Green. As am I," he stated clearly.

"Oh, good. We didn't know you were here for the auction, too," she continued.

"Ah, yes, the auction," he contemplated to her. "Displaying the finest slaves this country has to offer. What better way to say "Made In America" than this?"

"Yes, well, anyway, we must thank you once again for the lovely lemonade. It really quenched the fire, I can tell you. You have our deepest gratitude."

"Why thank you," Jonathan said proudly. "It's Thunder's special blend, you know?"

Curious, Drew spoke up. "Thunder. Is that the name of your slave, Mr. Smith?"

"Ah, yes, but he's so much more than just my servant. He's the finest horse a man could have," Smith said. "By the way, you're both drinking his piss. I thought you should know that."

Mr. And Mrs. Green stared at Jonathan with undisguised shock as a roiling build-up of sick grew freely within them.

Immediately, thereafter, the sick, which upon viewing, easily matched their namesake, freely left Mr. and Mrs. Green the only way it could. The Greens then promptly exited the store, leaving disgusted patrons in their scandalized wake, their minds purged of thoughts of personal sex slaves as thoroughly as their stomachs.

"He also makes wonderful biscuits, if you're interested," Smith offered with cool amiability.

Daniels, himself coming out of his shock, composed himself enough to announce, "Uh, 1,076, going once! Going twice! Sold to Mr. Smith for 1,076 dollars, American!"

Jonathan calmly stood from his table, took a victorious look at the crowd and said, quite pleased with himself, "I win."

Walking up to the front of the stage to meet his purchases, Smith saw that May, not yet recovered from the admittedly happy reverse of fortune played on the Greens, was still holding her skirt up high enough to show off her ankle.

"Ha, ha! No need for that, young lady," he told her good-naturedly. "I'm a happily married man. But if you're still interested, I have a son back home who could use some instruction in the carnal arts. The chickens are beginning to walk funny."

The cart's creaking wheels on gravel was the only sound both passengers and driver heard on the way from SlaveMart, and indeed, from Stoolbend, in particular.

Apart from humming some local ditty, the driver, Smith, was silent due to whatever thoughts he was thinking, in addition to his self-satisfaction in snatching the final bid from the insufferable Greens.

In the back of the cart, still chained, but to each other, this time, the passengers, May and Dewey kept quiet simply out of uncertainty.

They both seemed able to communicate by expression alone, wondering what kind of man this Smith was, if they should thank him for interceding and sabotaging the Greens' offer, and debating on whether or not to incapacitate him and drive off in his cart, hell bent for leather, to Lynchtree.

In fact, as they continued traveling along the country road, certain landmarks soon became familiar to them, gradually easing their anxieties somewhat.

When they found themselves on the very cemetery road they and Vincent were last seen on Earth together, thoughts of accosting their present owner transformed into a single question.

"Sir, where are you taking us? Because we _really_ need to get to a place called Lynchtree as soon as possible." May asked him after gathering the pluck to break the silence.

Surprisingly, Smith hadn't told them to be quiet and actually answered them in a conversational tone.

"I'm taking you as far away from Stoolbend as I can get you, young lady. That's no place for either of you."

Pleasant tone or no, upon hearing that, red flags in Dewey's mind were tripped. Too many friends and passing acquaintances he knew were taken away by strange white men, only to be found later swaying dead from a branch or face down in a lake or swamp. Who _was_ this man? What was he going to do with the two of them out here? Could this man be, in fact, as great a threat to them as the Greens were, or worse?

"Who are you?" Dewey asked next. "What do you want from us? If you're takin' us to a lynchin' party, we'll make sure you miss it, I guarantee."

All Dewey's threat elicited from Jonathan was a mighty belly laugh.

"You have a funny accent. Ha! It's funny. But you have nothing to fear, young man," he told Dewey. "I can't take you directly to Lynchtree, but I can get you close to it. As for parties, the only party you and your friend should come to is the same one I'm helping to form. The _Republican _Party."

Both teens looked at Smith in quizzically in response.

"The what party?" May asked.

"Ah, yes," Jonathan amended. "I've forgotten. Thanks to those spineless Democrats, you can't vote, so the concept of politics is as foreign to you as swimming. But you see? This is exactly why The Republican Party is so important for our uncertain times."

"You mean, the Democrats are…the Man?" May asked, incredulously.

"I'm sorry to say, but, yes, the Democrats _are _this Man," said Smith. "But where are my manners. The name's Jonathan Sterling Smith, a politician from this great state of Virginia. Can I count on your vote when the time comes, citizens?"

"But," said May. "We _can't_ vote, remember? Besides, I'm not even sure were citizens."

"Sorry, ma'am. Force of habit."

May brightened a bit on hearing him. "Wow. I'm a "ma'am". But you can call me May. May Griffin. And this my friend, Dewey."

Dewey looked at May in surprise. "I am?"

"Of course you are. Look, what happened back there, what I said in the shed? I _did _mean it. But since we've come so far, I wanted you to know that I'm still your friend and I still appreciate _everything_ you did for me."

"You do?"

"Yeah," May chuckled, wondering why he didn't think she was sincere about such a declaration. "I haven't forgotten. You're my friend, aren't you?"

She didn't know it, or perhaps she did and wanted to torture him in her own feminine way, but Dewey felt like he was being cut in two. This ache of being denied somethin wonderful, he knew, was the true punishment for his desperate misdeeds.

With her innocent use of the word _friend_, he was officially ostracized from her deeper love. Excommunicated from the church of her heart.

"I am," he said dejectedly.

Jonathan, oblivious to the quiet drama being played out behind him, perked up, asking them, "So, who's up for a song?"

The next hour passed relatively fast for the travelers as they went through as many songs, ditties, shanties, spirituals and anthems as they could quickly recall to keep the entertainment momentum going.

But after a while of amiable sing-a-longs, the need for conversation had to be addressed and so, as they neared the crossroads, topics of political import were discussed.

"So this Republican Party, would they let me be a writer if I joined them?" May asked while lounging on her side of the cart, her chains long removed by Jonathan a few miles back.

"I don't see why not," Jonathan reasoned. "We need all the PR we can get."

"Well, that's not the kind of writing I meant…" she said under her breath.

"So, let me understand," Dewey interjected. "You freed us, out of pocket, because you're one of these Republicans? Are they like the abolitionists?"

Smith straightened to a haughty length and laughed. "Ha! We're better. Abolitionists are _hippies _compared to the power of the party. We don't just see the evils of slavery and talk about it, we _do_ something about it."

"How so?" asked May.

"With our secret weapon. Something we like to call _The Attila the Hun Strategy_," Jonathan explained. "You see, the best way to destroy something is from within. With enough donations from our _special _friends, our unique understanding of the media and how gullible American people think, and good old fashioned contrarianism, we'll be able to beat these misguided citizens over the head with our good message, and bring them around to our way of thinking."

That way of thinking seemed rather off to May. A bit heavy-handed for so-called children who needed guidance. A tad draconian, a golden nugget in her growing vocabulary she was proud to correctly use in context. But on ruminating Jonathan's strategy, it sounded like a wolf thinking he could keep a baby chick warm by popping it in his mouth.

"Even if they don't seem to understand it?" she continued.

"It's for their own good, and it's the only way. But don't just take my word for it, my swarthy non-citizens. Time is on _our_ side, and when the history books are written by we Republicans, it will show, _one way or another_, that we did the right thing."

May decided to table the issue and press on to one that was more important.

"So, how far have your party gotten with stopping slavery? Do you think it'll ever be gone in our lifetime?"

Smith thoughtfully held his manly chin in thought before answering. "Hmm, that's a good question, Mabel."

"May."

"Meg. Not to brag, but we've made excellent strides in halting the western expansion of slavery into the new territories. Now if there was only some way to deal with the pesky Indian problem, Manifest Destiny could get back on track, and this land would truly become the great country our ancestors came all this way to claim."

May felt a bit disquieted about his opinion on the red man, who she knew was as put upon as her own people, but she quickly reminded herself that she was free because of this admittedly strange man, and so kept her own opinions to herself.

"O..._kay_," she deferred diplomatically. "Anyway, sorry for hammering you with all of these questions. I just wanted to know what was going on."

"No need to apologize," her benefactor told her, then said, "You managed to worm quite a bit out of me in so short an amount of time. Hmm, the party _has_ been thinking about getting into the media business to help get our message across. Perhaps you should think about becoming a reporter. We could certainly use you."

May thought about that sincerely. She had heard of some renowned writers getting their start in journalism. As paths went, it wasn't a bad one to cut one's teeth on.

"I get it. You want to gather political support and at the same time, point out social evils and give the people the truth, huh?" she reasoned.

Smith almost looked away sheepishly as he explained. "Well, we like to think of truth as interpretive, but you get the idea. Still, our media center would need a name, a mascot, a symbol that tells the American people exactly what to expect of us. Hmm, what comes to mind?"

"Chicken?" May offered.

"Weasel?" Dewey suggested next.

"Snake?"

"Bull?"

"Skunk?"

"Excellent choices, all," Jonathan agreed. "But, we're still young yet. We'll have a name that'll suit us, one day.

Having momentary thoughts of a hopeful future, herself, prompted May to ask Smith, "I wonder if a black person could be president some day."

Smiling, Smith reached back and patted her head somewhat condescendingly. "Well, I wouldn't worry about you not being a great _writer_ some day. You already have a fertile imagination."

"Uh, thanks," said May, pensively. "Well, I hope your party gets a chance to shine, Mr. Smith. It sounds like it's really trying to make a difference for everybody."

"That we are, Marisol, that we are," Smith said. "Don't let the name Democrat fool you. There's nothing _democratic_ about them, at all. We want every man to have his share of the American Pie, no matter how small it may be compared to others.

"But, what about women-"

"Here's your stop," Smith announced quickly, cutting her off as he brought his cart to a stop in the center of a wide, dusty crossroad.

"Now, just follow that road and you'll be in Lynchtree in no time," Smith instructed while pointing down the distance of a long, quiet stretch of road. "I have to return to Langley Falls to continue spreading the noble fertilizer that will make our mighty tree of state grow tall. Godspeed to you!"

"Thank you, kindly, sir." Dewey said as he and May clambered out of the cart's rear bed. "We'll never forget what you done for us today."

"Don't thank me. Thank the Republican Party!" Jonathan said with a jaunty flourish as he gave the reins a snap, and quickly rode up the highway, showering the two teens in a wake of loose gravel.

As Jonathan Sterling Smith grew smaller in the distance, May and Dewey, grateful for their massive good fortune, dusted themselves off and breathed in the first, uncomplicated taste of sweet freedom since their unfortunate capture.

"Y'know? That fella wasn't half bad," Dewey managed to say after spitting stony particulate out of his mouth. "I'd go Republican. If I could vote, that is. How 'bout you?"

May struck a thoughtful pose as she pondered her earlier talk with the good Mr. Smith.

"Well, he does seem to care about the issues, but I'm still on the fence concerning some of his policies. They seem a bit harsh to me. Like what's his stand on immigration, for example? Does he support the Nativists' views on people like the Irish and the Italians, or is he more progressive and believes that more immigrants can only improve and expand the economic growth of our country?"

Dewey shrugged in response. "Well, you gotta give 'em time, cher. They're a new party, but they sound like they've got some pretty bold ideas to help the country. It's not like they're a bunch of disgruntled cranks who got a whiff of power and then decide to play merry hell with the government and the people, just to get what they wanted."

This gave May some pause. "Yeah, you're right. I'm probably worrying for nothing."

Absently, she looked up and suddenly grew fearful when she saw the sky becoming gradually darker as the sun slowly arced towards the low, tree-lined horizon.

"We better get a move on," May said soberly.

The two teens quickly turned to the Lynchtree path and started briskly walking down the road with no further urging from anyone.

A half-mile from where he dropped off the journeying ex-slaves, Jonathan Smith resumed his self-satisfied smirk while he drove his team of horses on the way home, content in his noble, generous, and selfless act.

As the long highway opened before him, he proudly said to himself, "Hmm, good kids. Shame they'll probably die in the next town, but someday the black people will thank us Republicans for all the good work we'll do for them!"

He looked to the deepening dusk, his mind filled with future political victories and lasting, social goodwill and change, created and maintained by his beloved party. History would judge them as wholly benevolent in the end.

"Yes, it will be good."


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter _Fourteen-_

The grand old Pewterschmidt Mansion stood tall, wide and proud on the sloped hill of its property, still gleaming white in the fading sun, surrounded by a sea of green lawn that was populated by islands of magnolia trees that surrendered their fragrance to the warm wind.

Yet despite the sedate, bucolic setting, frantic work was being done on the premises. Field slaves were diverted from their usual labor to assist in the preparations of Silas Pewterschmidt's celebratory barbeque, setting up grounds for the small circus he had hired, seating and tables for outdoor dining, and building the huge, log-framed barbeque pit.

Within the mansion, house slaves, too, were hard at work with their end of the proceedings, prepping food by the basket load, cleaning far more meticulously than usual, and applying decorations inside and out.

And overseeing every action, critiquing and threatening bodily harm to any and all missteps, was Silas, himself, wearing his distantly disdainful and judgmental gaze on his face with all the beloved familiarity of a well-worn shirt.

He strode down the huge, ornate staircase slowly, scanning everything as he descended with his hard, critical eyes.

Right after sending that fateful invitation to his daughter, Silas had readied another invitation that was much more civil, but no less political, to the families and friends of the wealthy gentry in that corner of the state.

As their wives, mistresses and girlfriends of the moment knew from previous get-togethers, this was all, essentially, just a chance for the wealthiest men in town to come together and pull their collective and figurative dicks out to see who's was biggest.

The men's conversations and private competitions would always be the same. Comparisons over the sheer size of their plantation's fields in acreage, accurate accountings of yearly profit made, overall size of their mansions in terms of square feet, the exact number of slaves owned, and how much was made from any private sales, et cetera, et cetera.

But Silas wanted to out-dick them all, and he made a solemn promise to all of his servants that backs would bleed and bodies would swing if the festivities were mishandled tonight.

He knew that a party of this magnitude and perfection, if done right, would make him the envy of the gentry, and would be seen as his declaration to all and sundry that _he_ was the master of Lynchtree in relation to the abundance of his domain.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, a black man in livery clothes approached.

"Master Pewterschmidt, a coach has stopped outside the mansion," he reported.

Silas nodded expectantly. "Good! They're here. They made excellent time. Here, Jenkins. This is for you." He tossed a glittering silver dollar to the man.

The house slave held up the treasure with reverence and asked, "For me, sir?" Money was worth its weight in gold to a slave. With enough of it, he or she could buy their freedom.

"Yes. I have some gum on the bottom of my good shoes that needs to be scraped off. Take care of it for me. Oh, and I want it back when you're done."

"Yes, sir," his servant said, dejectedly.

As Jenkins opened the door for him, Silas walked out with all the presence and pomp of an emperor as he saw the Hessian, albeit with a loose door, parked a few feet away on the walkway.

Holding his head up and cocking an eyebrow to practice his haughty glance when his guests of honor stood before him, Silas watched The Hunter dismount from his high seat on the coach, open the weakened door gingerly, and then made his prisoners exit from the passenger area under drawn pistol, although the bounty hunter did, unexpectedly, bow in deference to Lois.

When he saw Nate and his sons, Silas' desired look of conceit changed quickly, darkening into a storm front of indignant rage.

"Do you remember what happened when I walked in on you that day two years ago?" He asked, walking calmly over to Lois' husband. "The day you and your mutt children ran off with my daughter?"

Nate, for his part, wracked his brains trying to recall the event.

"Hmm, let's see. I got up that morning," he said, ticking off the events slowly as they bubbled up to his recollection. "Went to the kitchen to pee in your cereal, as usual. Uh, the crops weren't ready for harvesting yet, so I was in the stables cleaning the horses that morning. Read some pamphlets from The Underground Railroad. That was interesting. Took your family to town and then waited for you while you got your clams steamed at that whorehouse you liked. Good clams there."

"Then I took your family back home, got my daily beat down from the overseers, and then had lunch. Afterwards, I did some yard work, clearing some wood, and then fixing some of the wagons by the work shed. By then, it was time for dinner. I went home to my slave quarters to eat and that's when you showed up, Mister Pewterschmidt, but I can't remember what happened before we escaped from you."

"Here's a hint," Silas offered as he revealed a frying pan from behind himself, and swung hard, catching Nate to the side of the head with the impact, causing the pan to ring.

Despite Nate's family's cries of consternation from the attack, Silas stood over Nate, pan in hand, triumphantly.

"You have no idea how long I wanted to pay you back for that pan in the face, Griffin."

"Really?" Nate asked evenly from where he rested on the ground. "So it didn't have anything to do with me peeing in you and Mrs. Pewterschmidt's cereal? How did you feel about that, by the way?"

Silas relaxed and ruminated on that, saying, "Well, my wife and I _did_ feel sick for a while, to tell you the truth. And I couldn't understand why it happened every mor-" Then he hit him again.

"Daddy!" Lois objected as she ran to Nate. "Stop hitting him! He's my husband and he did what he had to do to protect us."

"It's okay, Lois," Nate groaned as he tried to recover from the blows. "At least it's not for sleeping with your sister Carolina."

Lois took the pan from her father and soundly hit her husband on the head.

"Ow! Whachu do _that_ for?" Nate yelled.

"You slept with my _sister_?"

"Well, it was _before_ we got married!" he rationalized. "Sheesh!"

"Ugh! You two! And she never even _told_ me!" Lois fumed.

Nate shrugged apologetically, punctuating with his usual nervous giggle. "I'm sorry, Lois. It was a long time ago. I guess it was just the dog in me. Do you forgive me?"

Lois crossed her arms and looked away, thinking. He did have a point. A small, _microscopic_ point, in her view, that he and her sister's little dalliance _did_ happen before they tied the knot, or jumped the broom, in this case. He clearly showed his fidelity to her from that point on.

"Yeah…" She said begrudgingly. "I guess so."

Silas gave a cruel smirk, however, motioning to an overseer and his small group of assistants to help Nate up to chain him together with his sons.

"Well, that's just fine, Griffin, because I know what to do with dogs that don't know their place. They get put down. I'm going to erase this mistake of a family."

He then turned vehemently to his daughter. "And you, you're going to marry someone who'll bring honor to the good name of Pewterschmidt."

"I already have, Daddy," Lois said defiantly.

"Then it's time to trade up. Get in the house and rest up. You've got a big night ahead of you. All of you do," Silas said before giving a mean-spirited laugh as the overseer and his men began to march the male Griffins around the back of the house towards the sheds, and Lois walked worryingly towards the house.

"Wait a minute!" Silas ordered. Every one stopped moving and he glanced suspiciously at the Griffins. "Wasn't there another one with you? A _girl_?"

Every family member kept still and guiltily quiet. May was the only one not caught by The Hunter, and although they had no idea what she was doing or where she was by now, they could at least die, content in the knowledge that a Griffin still lived and would remember them.

Whatever peace of mind the Griffins managed to garner, however, was fearfully and totally absent in The Hunter. His reputation was threatened, and more importantly, his _payday_. There was another one, and she _escaped_ him?

He, too, remained quiet, but he looked over at the family of race-traitors and mongrels with a hatred unaccustomed. They tricked him, and their silence and sacrifice would allow one of their own to survive this.

He could only see one way this could be played out. The family would proudly tell Pewterschmidt that his hired hound missed one of his quarry, and so cheated both men of what they wanted. Silas, his revenge, and The Hunter, full payment for a completed mission.

His greed and ego, in the end, prompted him to lie, and he was prepared to challenge anyone who claimed otherwise, when a curious thing happened. The condemned did it for him.

"Yes," Nate spoke up, putting every effort into the falsehood, both to sell it to Silas, and to instruct the rest of his family to go along with it. "But that bastard killed her when she tried to escape. Didn't he, Lois?"

Lois, slightly caught off-guard with this mendacious game of hot potato, quickly took up the lie and embellished it, for realism's sake.

"Huh? Oh-Oh, my God! Yes! Yes! That motherfucker caught my baby trying to run and killed her before he raped her," Lois cried out, sobbing for effect.

"Other way," Her husband quickly corrected her in a whisper.

"I mean he _raped_ her _before_ he killed her!"

Curtis, knowing what to do next, added, "Poor May! That asshole cut her head off and used it to play three-on-three basketball."

Huey, however, thinking it was a funny word game, chimed in happily, "Oh, yes! And…And then he…And then he made a pair of soft riding gloves from her skin and then made some beautifully decorative scrimshaws from her collar bones!"

Everyone stopped to notice a wide-eyed Huey panting softly from his grisly imaginings and silently began to wonder about that kid.

"Is all this true, Hunter?" Silas asked. Even though he hated the family as a whole, it all sounded a bit far-fetched to him.

With all attention now focused on The Hunter, he suddenly knew what his prey must have felt. Whatever decision he made now, he had to live or die by it.

"Yes," he said quickly with uncertain terseness.

Silas gave a moment to think, then gave The Hunter a look that told the man that he was both respectful and duly impressed at this bounty man's thoroughness and savagery.

"Damn!" Silas commended him. "You're one mean son of a bitch. I like that in a man. You're a real bad-ass."

The bad-ass in question was uncommonly dumbstruck by the tableau. The family was clearly lying their collective asses off to protect this May, and didn't mind making him look better in the process. Loyalty was overrated to him, but when he saw it up close like this, where there was no profit for them but death, it was striking.

Silas waved the doomed family away to their individual fates, and then turned back to the bounty man.

"I believe some payment is due, my good man," he said. "Excellent work and worth every penny."

"Thank you kindly, Mister Pewterschmidt," The Hunter said with a slight bow. "I was wonderin', though, if it would be a imposition to stay a spell at your little shindig tonight?"

"I don't see why not, you certainly deserve it."

"Well, what if I was to tell you that I was plannin' to retire after this go-'round."

Silas looked at him with puzzlement. "Why? I would've thought that you lived for the challenge of your profession. Looking for the next big hunt, and all that other romantic bullshit."

"Well, normally I would, but a man has to know when it's high time to settle down, and I figured with this hefty bounty I earned, it's about time I started lookin' for a wife."

"Hmm," Silas said thoughtfully. "I see."

The Hunter could see that he had the old man's attention with this, so he continued to pour on the ol' southern charm. "Yes, so, I figured a wealthy man like yourself might cotton to the idea of having a rich, hard-workin' man, such as myself, as a son-in-law."

"Hmm, I see."

"And maybe I could help convince your lovely daughter to be more accommodating to _me,_ if you could give me a…backstage pass to her bed chamber tonight durin' the party?"

Silas offered The Hunter a cold beverage to drink. "Mmm. Iced tea?"

The Hunter gave a triumphant grin at Silas' apparent blessing. "I knew we saw things eye to eye, Mister Pewterschmidt. I mean...Pa!"

The two men turned to enter the manor and finish their transaction just as the overseer returned from the rear of the house.

"We finished lockin' them up," he reported to his employer. "Anything else we can do for you, sir?"

Silas gave a thoughtful glance, and then told him, "Just keep the servants on their toes. I want tonight to be perfect."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and if you see Jenkins, make sure to beat the shit out of him, would you?" he asked the man with cold indifference as he entered his home. "Rat bastard stole one of my silver dollars."

The sounds of the crickets softly chirping in the deepening dusk would have soothed May, if the darkening sky didn't create the greatest sense of urgency within her.

Still, from her high position above the cornfield, she could appreciate her view of the sea of yet-to-be-harvested crops and the beckoning road under a breathtakingly rosy sunset.

She struggled to loosen her wrists against the hempen bonds that held her and Dewey aloft on tall, cruciform supports that had them resembling living scarecrows in posture.

May looked over to the rig that held up Dewey.

"Well, that's the _last_ time we ask a knife-wielding redhead for directions. This isn't a lynching, is it, Dewey?"

"I don't think so, thank goodness," Dewey answered from across the space dividing them. "Whoever they are, they must've slept through Lynchin' 101. No trees and no rope."

Dewey glanced around to see the ropes tied to his wrist and ankles. "Crucifixion? Well, I gotta admit, that's pretty old school."

May risked vertigo looking straight up into the dark sky to make a determination of the time. Were they already too late?

She looked back to her bonds to check on their condition when she considered how far she'd fall if they ever gave out, which didn't seem likely, and saw a crowd of people standing a short distance from the bases of their crosses.

It was a mob of children of various ages, from youngsters to teens older than May and Dewey, watching the two captives' movements with anxious anticipation.

Before them stood two of their peers, one small and wiry, wearing what passed as a preacher's black raiment, including a matching broad brimmed hat, and the other, a tall, freckled, muscular redhead, wearing simple clothes and brandishing a kitchen knife as easy as he pleased.

May's eyes widened in fear.

"Oh, no! Dewey, I've heard of these guys!" she fretted aloud.

"Who are they?" he asked as he peered down on them.

"They're some kind of nature cult that worshiped some creature that lives underneath the corn field. Every now and then, they give it a sacrifice in return for a good harvest. I guess it's feeding time right about now," she explained, as the pale boy in black with the bearing of a leader, approached them.

"See? You couldn't be more wrong," Black Hat said. "We're not some stupid cult, we're just a group of enterprising, young industrialists trying to protect our fledgling corn whiskey business."

May was clearly taken aback by this. "What?"

"You saw too much of our operation here in the corn field when you guys were walking by the side of the road. For all we know, you could be industrial spies. Competition's pretty tough for starter businesses, y'know? So, we'll have to sacrifice you. Sorry 'bout that," the boy said simply.

"Wait," Dewey interjected, wishing his hand was free so he could raise it to _signal_ his interjection. "You just said that you're not a cult!"

"We're not," the preacher-looking boy explained. "The creature's our silent partner. He asked for sacrifices in his contract."

A contemplative moment passed between the two captives while they weighed the rationale of what the pale kid had said.

"What? It's _his_ cornfield!" the boy shrugged.

Red Head suddenly raised his knife over his head, calling out, "Outlander! Outlander! Outlander!"

"You're correct!" the pale boy told his compatriot. "Finally, a _good_ use for the word. Outlander Brand Whiskey will put us on the map."

Looking back to the two sacrificial lambs, he asked, "Anything you two want to say before the end?"

"Yes," May said in perfect deadpan. "The Addams Family said all is forgiven and they want you to come home. They miss you terribly."

Black Hat looked to Dewey. "And you?"

"It takes a _real_ man to wear Gothic Lolita?" Dewey quipped.

"Mature. But we'll see how funny you sound when you're offered up like a sushi platter for the creature."

"Outlander! Outlander!" Red Head carried on.

"Yes, you're right-"

"Outlander! Outlander! Outlander!"

"Okay, okay, I heard you," Black Hat said irritably. "Sheesh! What! Did you fall down a flight of stairs when you were a baby?"

Turning to his fellow children, he told them, "Okay, gang. On the downbeat. Outlander. Outlander."

The children started to accompany their leader in the chant, and from her height, May didn't feel too threatened at the moment. Everything looked too small to be so. Maybe the creature didn't even exist, and was just the imaginings of bored striplings with too much time on their hands.

She was hoping to rely on that notion until she heard a distant rustling off to the side and behind her. May thought it was a breeze moving the stalks, and then realized that from where she was propped up, she felt no wind blow.

May craned her neck as far around as it could go to try and track the direction of the sound, which seemed to shift furtively, like a predator testing the area for nasty surprises before moving in for the kill.

"What _is_ that?" Dewey called out upon seeing what looked like a large portion of the ground between the chanting children and the poles begin to swell and move, as though something big was tunneling too close to the surface.

May couldn't answer and the kids simply ignored him, as the swell grew larger and more noticeable, even in the evening gloom. Whatever it was, it was real and probably famished, to boot.

The chanters turned up the volume of their ritual when they saw a reddish glow of eldritch energy seep from the swell and gradually begin to crawl up the bases of the two crucifixes.

The young leader gave May and Dewey a sinister smirk, and said with self-satisfaction, "Sorry, guys. Just protecting our bottom line."

The crowd's devotion and anxiety rose to a crescendo as the demonic power closed in on their feet, making the offerings fight all the harder for what seemed a lost cause. The ropes were tied too well and no help was forthcoming.

May raged within. To travel so far, go through so much, and to risk all she had, just to be caught just shy of succeeding in her mission so she could be devoured by some otherworldly beast for the sake of a profit margin.

"I can't believe this. I come all this way just to be executed by the Junior Entrepreneurs of America!" she fumed.

The hellish light covered their legs by the time May and Dewey heard the sound of something rushing through the corn stalks straight towards them with deliberate speed.

Although the children kept up the chant, they, too, heard the sound, and their collective fervor began to die down as they wondered what it was. It wasn't the creature. That they would attest to.

The stalks parted violently to produce a white stallion bounding into view like an avenging ghost.

"Vincent!" May squealed joyously as the horse bucked, snorted and reared up to the terrified children, who broke pseudo-ecclesiastical ranks and tore out of the field.

As the pale, little boy called after his cowardly flock, Red Head turned to Vincent, knife in hand, determined to bring the horse down, no matter how the animal out-weighed him.

Vincent caught the glint of metal by hell light, turned deftly, and gave the unbalanced teenager a kick to the chest that had the boy tumbling painfully away by yards.

Not seeing Black Hat as a threat, Vincent trotted over to the posts, turned his back to them and gave them judiciously powerful kicks, intending to either crack the poles in two, or knock them out of the dirt.

The supports shattered upon contact with his hooves, causing his friends to teeter and ultimately tip over with a scream into the field below.

"I'm coming!" Vincent called out, thankful that the corn stalks collapsed underneath them and broke their falls. He then carefully walked into the space May's post made upon falling.

"Oh! Thank God it's you, Vincent!" May said as she gratefully watched the evil presence of the children's veneration flow away from her and her crucifix. "How did you get away?"

"Well, when I saw you being attacked, I did the only noble thing and ran away like a bitch. But you have no idea how happy I am that you somehow managed to survive!" the horse told her before bowing his great head to chew apart the ropes holding her.

Once she worked herself free, May followed Vincent over to where Dewey fell, watching the demon departing from him as Vincent reduced his bonds to hemp remnants.

"Thanks a lot, Horse Meat," Dewey said with a breath of incredulous happiness. "I'm much obliged."

"I know you are. Now, let us leave this den of corn and iniquity," the horse said as he straightened to his full height and allowed the two teens to mount him. With an urgent flick of the reins, Vincent blasted out of the field with a mighty gallop.

Black Hat pensively watched the trio thread through the vegetation and finally reach the open safety of the road, where they soon disappeared down it into the burgeoning night.

Long months of dealing with his silent partner gave Black Hat the unique ability to sense the monstrous mound's comings and goings, and it served him well as he knew the creature was approaching from behind.

The mound stopped a foot from the trembling boy's feet as he thought up one lie or excuse after another to stave off the inevitable.

"Please! I know I screwed up your offering, but if you give me a chance, I can make it up to you," shrieked the boy. "You-You'll have a sacrificial bonus, I swear! Just give me a little time!"

The mound, frustrated at losing two whole sacrifices in one night, suddenly grew taller than the surprised child and sprouted a red-rimmed, jack-o-lantern-like grimace.

"_Breach of contract!_" the creature bellowed in a demon's voice.

Then he promptly swallowed him.

The sun had set completely by the time Vincent slowed to a walk to catch his breath while he caught up on May and Dewey's doings during the split-up.

"So this Smith person bought the pair of you, just so he could release you?" Vincent asked. "How very Anne Sewell of him."

"Anne Sewell?" asked May, unfamiliar with the name.

"_Black Beauty_. You're not the only ones to have an _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ written for you," he explained.

"Oh! Yeah. He was a nice guy. A bit of a blowhard, but not a bad man," May said.

"Yep," Dewey added, watching the dark road for surprises and glancing at the rough silhouette of the woods as they began to blend in with the black, star-flecked sky. "He certainly saved our bacon back there. But what about you? Where did you go when we got jumped on the road?"

"Well, as I told May earlier, I opted for a strategic _retreat _until I was satisfied that the situation was more manageable for a rescue," said the horse.

"Oh! You punked out and hauled ass," Dewey concluded. "Gotcha."

Vincent gave a sour sigh to the comment. "Ugh. You make it sound so _craven_. In any event, didn't I rescue you? I didn't just do that because I had a change of heart, you know? I've been looking for you two for hours that debacle."

May softened from the horse's admission, pleasantly surprised. "You did that for us, Vincent?"

"Yes," Vincent said with a proud snort. "I followed those animals who attacked us back to Stoolbend until they took you to the back of some large building. There were too many people there for me to get to you, plus, it look like you two were asleep in there."

May looked away uncomfortably. The pain of her first black eye was still fresh to her. "Knocked out, actually. I think their leader had some serious woman issues when he caught up with me."

Vincent continued. "I hid in the woods by the building so I wouldn't get captured and waited. I had hoped that you would eventually wake up and figure out how to escape the building, but hours passed, and I had to leave before someone found me and put me in a stable."

"But you're a horse," May reasoned. "How bad would that have been?

Snobbishly, Vincent raised his head high, nose angling to the stars. "Well, I'm no snob, mind you, but I just _have_ to know as much about my roommates as possible whenever I spend any amount of time in a stable. There are clearly too many horses that are inconsiderate these days. Eating hay and feed that you clearly set aside for yourself, not burying their turds in the straw like someone with common sense, or playing their music all hours of the night. Good grief, just because they may have been born in a barn, it doesn't mean they have to _act_ like it."

Dewey turned his head to the side and coughed out the word _snob. _Vincent ignored him and resumed his story.

"Anyway, I took a chance that you might have left during my absence and pressed on, so I went here and waited along the road. I thought I saw you up the road before that creepy ginger boy accosted you, so I made my move. And here we are, out on the road to Lynchtree."

Without warning, May, Dewey and Vincent spontaneously burst into song:

_We're off on the road,_

_To Lynchtree,_

_We sure do be gettin' around!_

They stopped singing just as quickly, and Dewey proceeded to ask the young Miss Griffin, "What's gonna happen when we get there, though? It's not like all your folks can ride on Vince, May."

May frowned to herself. "I've gotta admit I haven't really thought this far into it. It was easy to go hell-bent for leather. I just wanted to get them out, but now that we're so close, I've got no _real _plan to do that."

"Then why, dear girl, are we heading into the lion's den?" asked Vincent. "And why on Earth do I smell…barbeque chicken?"

May raised his head and took a wistful sniff of the evening air. "Yeah. I smell it, too. Probably Old Man Waters cooking out again. That farmer's always cooking either chicken or raccoon, depending on what crawls into his bedroom."

Dewey vaguely noted May's comment while he navigated Vincent along the deserted dirt road, his eyes now accustomed to the dark as he casually saw the vast tracts of various owned farmland slowly pass them by on either side.

Chagrined, he couldn't recall seeing any road sign telling them if they entered any part of Lynchtree, yet. If there was such a sign, Dewey realized that they were in such a hurry to leave the cornfields, and it was so dark now, it could easily have been missed.

May would have agreed that backtracking was unthinkable. There was no time. They had to continue. He also didn't know May was familiar with the doings of any farmers in the area.

A thought suddenly lanced through his mind and he stiffened in the saddle.

"I think we're in Lynchtree," he said urgently.

"What?" May asked.

"I think we passed the road sign back there, but I think we might be in Lynchtree. Look around, though. You were talkin' about that farmer, Waters, just now. Do any of these farms look like his?"

May slowly scanned the acres as they walked past them, giving as good an inspection of the tilled fields as her eyes could muster under the moonlight.

As she relaxed and let her consciousness drift away from the present, the sudden image of rushing farms, the feeling of confusion, and the icy terror of capture sprang from deep in the dark of her mind.

Her grandfather, Silas, had finally, after all those years, caught the family together through stupid, blind luck. He just walked in on them while they were preparing to eat what would be their last dinner in Virginia.

There was no time to come up with a convincing lie or clever strategy. Silas was far too angry to listen, more with himself for being tricked and, thus, having his rule undermined, than with his daughter and her rebellious husband for perpetrating the supposed crime.

So her father did what he had to do for his family, he did the unthinkable, and struck his master down. She remembered being so scared, and yet carried aloft on the crest of her father's desperate, but heroic action that day.

May found herself holding her breath from the still potent recollection of the panicked flight from her grandfather's plantation, her only home, on timely Al Cowling's convenient cart.

Down this lonely strip of road. The road of their exodus.

"I don't see Waters' farm anywhere, but I think you're right," May finally said. "I do recognize this road. This isn't a main road leading into town. This was a private road the farmers and plantation owners around here used when they wanted to get to a neighboring town fast. In fact, this is the road we left on when my family escaped Grandpa two years ago. And if I remember that, then maybe we _do_ have an edge."

Vincent's ears pricked up with interest. "What do you mean?"

"Guys, I used to _live_ here," May explained, a cocky grin growing ever wider on her face. "This is my hood, and I know Grandpa's place inside and out. If this is the road I think this is, we'll be there in no time. We'll sneak in, get some wheels, get my family, and then sneak back out."

Dewey begrudgingly fought against May's infectious confidence. He wanted her to succeed as much as she did, but not if the siren's song of overconfidence had her marching to her own self-destruction.

"And if we get caught, what then? We won't get sold this time. We'll swing," he warned. "I don't want us to swing, May."

"Well, let's see how we feel about seeing other people before you make your decision," May joked, still buoyant with possible success.

Dewey and Vincent both gave May a quizzical look.

"Get it?" May asked. "Swinging? In a relationship?"

Uncomfortable silence.

"Oh, fuck the both of you. That was funny," May scoffed, then got back on track. "Hello! We're black."

Vincent gave a discreet, correcting cough.

"Okay, _you_ and _I_ are, Dewey. If any overseer sees us, he'll just assume we live here. Remember, we look alike to them."

"I don't know, May."

"C'mon! You said you always wanted to be an actor, Dewey. Well, this is the big time" she pleaded. "We'll be okay if act like we belong here."

Boyfriend or not, she knew he would drag her away in a heartbeat if it meant keeping her safe and would worry about her condemning him later.

She hoped it wouldn't come to that. She was already torn over what to do. Stay with her family and share their fate, if caught, or allow Dewey to take her away to safety, maybe start a family of her own with him, and keep only her memories of her own family as bittersweet proof of her lineage.

The warm night was heavy with a thoughtful silence. Even Vincent decided against voicing an opinion on so delicate a subject, with only the sound of his hoof beats keeping measure with the moment. Finally, with a worrisome sigh, Dewey relented.

"Okay, May. It's your show," he said sternly. "But if this doesn't work, I'm gettin' you outta there and I don't wanna hear no back sass on the matter."

May solemnly nodded her compliance. And just like he was when they first met, he would be the man that maybe she needed, willing to help her, and not take "no" for an answer, provided she give him the support and latitude _he_ needed.

"Alright, Dewey. But it's going to work. It just has to."

Vincent saw this as his cue. The horse quietly cantered up the long road, carrying two souls to their destinies. For one, the fateful culmination of a lifetime of cruel labor under an even crueler man.

And for the other, the possible success or failure to save her loved ones from a man who, to her, represented the all-too tragic dichotomy of being both family and her tormentor.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter _Fifteen-_

Lois absently ran her hand across the clean covers of the long since made up and untouched bed she sat on. It and everything else in her bedroom had been left alone, but still maintained over the years, at her mother's insistence.

Looking around at the mementos of a once pampered life, she wondered how her mother, Margaret, had fared upon hearing news of her daughter's secret, and no doubt, scandalous, double life.

On her first few weeks on the road, survival was understandably foremost on her mind. A young woman of privilege wasn't supposed to be subjected to the constant rigors of a life on the move. But with the threat of capture and arrest for her, and definite death to her family, thoughts of her mother's probable disapproval failed to even come to mind.

Now that things seemed to have come full circle, and she found herself in her old bedroom again, Lois' mind quieted, and she began to think about Margaret, and her erstwhile innocence, once again.

Here, in her bedroom, she was safe from the inherent chauvinism of the male world. Here, when she and her mother talked and bonded, this place became sacrosanct. This was the place where secrets were passed down from mother to daughter. Where strength was gathered and storms were weathered.

The proving ground where Lois would have prepared to be the kind of mother her daughter May would have someday needed.

She had to remind herself again that The Hunter, thankfully, hadn't captured May, and, like Lois, couldn't even begin to guess as to where she was. It proved to be a Pyrrhic victory, she knew, but a victory, all the same. Through May, the Griffins, in spite of everything, would live on.

Lois hung her head slightly in worry. Where in that intolerant wilderness _was_ her daughter? Who was looking after her? What harsh lessons of life was she learning, wherever she was?

And what about the issues on the Pewterschmidt side of things? What business could she square with her blood before the end? She knew that she had burned every bridge worth crossing, as far as her father was concerned, but her mother was always the more understanding of the two parents.

Up-beat music floated to her windows from below, and Lois could feel the energy of the revelry, even in her room, but she made the determination of not joining in. This was all for her father, after all, and keeping her distance from it was one way she could exercise her protest of the man.

Still, she found herself walking to one of the windows and looked down. The stark contrast between her early life and now was brought into sharp, painful focus upon seeing men and women who were once known to be friends of the family, mingling about with invited relatives and others.

She felt cut off, and more like a prisoner than her husband and sons were. Just another part of the sad toll she had to pay for loving them.

She perked up somewhat when she recognized childhood friends that had also found their way to the festivities.

Lois was sorely tempted to call out to them from her window, to engage in the simple pleasure of just talking and catching up on things, but she suspected, perhaps correctly, that Silas had told them all about his daughter's transgressions.

She could still risk reconnecting with them, and they might openly smile in her face, but she knew, behind their eyes, they were gone from her now. They would never side with her on her decision, and would secretly ostracize her from their memories. Just as her father would have planned.

Lois walked back to her bed, the knowledge that she was now a pariah making her feel more drained and tired than she felt when she had her tea earlier. No doubt those same rigors of the road finally catching up with her.

She sat down and began trying to contemplate escape stratagems; none of them probably any good, when she heard the doorknob slowly twist and click.

Turning her attention to the door, she wondered if it was a servant, then grasped the notion that it could have also been Silas. It was unlikely he would have come to talk civilly, or even, impossibly enough, to apologize.

So that only left, in her mind, one other consideration. Mother. Maybe he wanted to talk about her, which was good. In her haste to find shelter from the emotional tempest she returned to, she had forgotten to ask about her condition, or how she came to be so infirm.

"Daddy?" Lois called out.

The door opened with slow intent to reveal the full frame of Theodore Hunter standing cockily in the doorway. Lois suddenly wished it had been her father, no matter what he might have said to disgust or anger her.

"What do you want?" she growled in exasperation.

"Well, now, I just wanted to see you, cher," he purred as he nonchalantly stepped inside.

Lois quickly got up and walked with purpose over to the man, trying not to quail in his presence as a man-killer. He was not going to violate the one place she could feel whole in, not if she could help it.

"Well, you saw me. Now get out, and don't call me Cher," she ordered him.

Hunter calmly smiled at her, carrying with it the sense of inevitability to his course, as he looked her up and down as though he were searching for the perfect cut of meat. He reached behind him with one hand and closed the door, then locked it.

The impossible thought of being raped in her own home, in her own _bedroom_, paralyzed Lois with incredulous shock. Some part of herself analyzed the situation from outside herself, not believing that this man could be this heartless, this evil.

She tried to steel her voice, to show force and authority when she would tell him to leave, but the initial sound came out dry, tremulous and weak.

"You-You get out-" was all she could manage before Hunter grabbed her by her arms, pinning them, and forced his lips against hers with a hungry speed that made the kiss feel feral.

Lois twisted her head this way that, fighting to break the unwanted connection of his heedless passions, his need to consume her with his liquor-tainted lips and rough, seeking hands, but he followed her lips, move for move, kissing her deeper with every failed evasion.

When he finally let her go, Lois' face was a mask of wide-eyed, ruddy shame and breathlessness. She hated herself for failing to defend herself, hated herself for being weak, and hated herself for almost drowning in his hot desire.

Staring at his self-satisfied face, she made up her mind to erase it as best she could.

Although his head moved, Hunter hardly flinched from the slap she delivered across his cheek. His eyes smoldered with an aggression he hadn't felt in years.

Lois saw the same thing and tensed, attempting to prepare for his retaliation, but instead, he scooped her up in his iron arms and looked into her eyes lustily.

Her kicks and struggles made her feel like a caught fish trying to escape a bear's jaws, and seemed just about as effective.

Suddenly, she whooped as she was tossed from his arms, like a catapult, across the room, and into her plush bed. But because of the distance, she bounced off the deep mattress at an angle, and landed on the hardwood floor in a heap.

"Oops! Sorry, darlin'," Hunter apologized with unexpected sincerity, as he undone his gun belt and placed it on her nearby, mirrored dresser, and casually began unbuttoning his vest and shirt as he stalked closer towards her.

Collecting herself, Lois peered over the bed, watching his approach. She glanced at the locked door and sighed disappointedly. She knew she wouldn't be able to run past him, unlock the door, and escape the room in one smooth action.

But could still get help from elsewhere, she realized as she stood up and angled herself in the direction of the nearest window.

Lois bolted to it, hoping Hunter's maneuvering around the bed would slow down him enough for her to reach it.

Miraculously, she reached it and opened it to the sounds of raucous merrymaking in the yard below.

"Help! Help me!" Lois shrieked into the night, barely heard over the noise of the partiers.

Some of the revelers noticed her leaning as far out of the window to be heard as common sense would allow, but misinterpreted her actions for wild abandon and cheered for her, proudly.

"No! No! You lushes! Help me!" Lois admonished them before she felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her waist and yank her back into the bedroom.

The partiers, seeing this, didn't know what to make of the scene. Then, after a moment's silent deliberation, they decided that that was probably part of the merriment, as well, and so, carried on partying hearty.

Hunter lifted her easily, and with a twirl, tossed Lois back onto the bed. As she landed on her back, her captor pounced on her, pinning her arms to her side with his straddled legs as he hunched over for another kiss.

"Hear that, darlin'?" he asked upon hearing the revelry outside. "Sounds like they're cheerin' us on, cher."

_Fight! _Lois' mind commanded her. _Defeat him! Hurt him! Badly!_

"I told you," Loisreminded Hunter as his smug face descended to hers. _"Don't call me Cher!"_

When his face was at its lowest, Lois opened her mouth as though she were starving for low-hanging fruit, craned her head up, and sank her teeth bloodily into his nose.

With a roar of pain, Hunter reared up, thoughts of lust fleeing him as tears and blood run down his thin face. Before he could recover his wits to exact his revenge, however, Lois sat up, balled up a fist, and launched a backhanded blow that connected to the point of his chin with enough force to twist his head and send him over the side of the bed and crashing to the floor.

Lois swiftly bounced out of bed on the other side. The side leading to the door and her possible freedom. Already she could hear Hunter stumble and try to get his bearings as she made it halfway there.

"Damn you, girl!" came his angry yell, as he stood unsteadily and prepared to charge through the bed, if need be, to bring her down.

If he couldn't have her, then he could console himself with the knowledge that he could destroy the last moments of her marriage by ravaging her and taking what she gave to Nate freely, before telling him so before he was hung.

Lois chided herself for stopping to turn in Hunter's direction in response to his yell. He could still overtake her long before she could unlock the door, and already he was starting to round the bed to do just that.

The corner of her eye, however, found her salvation in the form of the discarded gun belt on her bureau. Without thinking, she leapt to one of the holsters and pulled out one of his pistols, heavy and lethal.

Hunter's progress stopped dead as he watched the trembling black hole of the barrel point at him with distressing accuracy in her unfamiliar grip.

Chagrined at his carelessness, he raised his hands slowly and moved back to where he fell earlier as a show of good faith. Despite being a practiced killer of men, he knew an untenable position when he saw one.

"Now hold on, darlin'," he soothed as the gun still tracked him.

"Don't darling _me_," Lois said vehemently as she backed towards the door, never taking her eyes from her attacker.

"I-I thought you didn't want me to call you Cher," he reasoned with a nervous joke.

"I don't want you calling me _Sonny_, motherfucker! You just keep yourself right where I can see you!" Lois gave a thankful sigh when she finally felt the door against her back.

Holding the wrist breaker up, shakily, with one hand, she fumbled behind her with the other for the lock's latch.

Favoring his ruined nose and sensing that she was close to flying from his clutches for good, Hunter made an impossible, last minute appeal to her, despite his previously malicious behavior.

"Lois, you can't think I was meanin' to hurt you with all that, do you? I knew you weren't into all that Shakespeare in the Park shit, that's all. Remember back on the train? I told you you've got sauce, girl, and I meant it. I like sauce. Now, let's stop all this foolishness and come back to me, honey. What do you say?"

The door opening with a click of the disabled lock would have been all the reply she needed for his nonsense, but she fixed a venomous stare at him.

"If you ever…touch me again, I'll rape _you_ with this thing," she warned, brandishing the gun at him. "And you won't like it when I shoot _my_ load."

She left with a slam of the door.

Silas stared at the pretentious, oversized portrait of himself in his study while he took a break from the festivities. It gave him a warped sense of peace and truth few things in the world did, and with a cold mint julep in hand, his daughter's reconsideration and possible engagement pending, and the death of Nate and his wretched brood fast approaching, Silas was a very content man this night.

His first response to the sound of his door opening was to think that it was a lost partier asking where the bathroom was before trusting to his or her own booze-addled judgment, and simply urinating on the kitchen floor. When it turned out to be Lois, instead, it was an unexpected, though not unwelcome, surprise.

Carrying his drink, he casually walked over to his desk to sit while his distraught daughter marched over to it and slammed a stolen pistol down on its mahogany surface in prelude to the tirade to come.

Silas looked down at the gun while he sipped his drink. "Kind of a strange wedding gift, isn't it?" he asked obliviously.

"Daddy! Daddy! That hunter! He tried to-" Lois managed to get out before fatigue and shot nerves took their toll on her voice.

Silas' gray brows perked up slightly upon hearing about the dubiously esteemed Theodore Hunter. "Huh. He's through already? Hmm, that was fast. I would have thought he would have stuck around for a cuddle afterwards."

Despite her emotional anguish, Lois was lucid enough to catch what her father said. "You _knew_ about this?"

"Of course," Silas answered easily. His heart didn't even tremble from the criminality that was nearly perpetrated. "You need to be with someone of your own kind, and Hunter seems just right for you."

"But, Daddy, he almost raped me!" Lois entreated, not wanting to believe the depths of her father's disregard for anyone but himself.

"So he didn't finish, then?" he asked, somewhat disappointed.

"Daddy, he_ almost raped me_!" Maybe he didn't hear clearly in his old age.

Silas simply shook his head sadly in the face of all of her counterproductive emotionality. Such was the curse of women, he concluded.

"Yes, Lois, he did do that," he impossibly reasoned. "But it would have been with a _white_ man, so it wouldn't have been _that_ bad, would it?"

Lois gasped at the hypocrisy, fighting back threatening tears. "How could you do this to your own daughter?"

Taking pause at that, Silas actually looked wounded as he straightened in his leatherback chair and reached into a small drawer in his desk.

"What do you mean? I took every precaution to make sure you two would have a wonderful time. With this."

He pulled out a small bottle and held it up for her inspection. "Laudanum, the ruffie of the Nineteenth Century. I put some in your tea a little while ago."

Lois stood in numb shock. That explained the sudden nap she took after her tea earlier. Just to set the lamb up for the wolf.

"You _bastard_!" she spat at him, any familial bonds she had with him rapidly disintegrating.

Silas simply waved it off. "Oh, come now, kitten! That's how I met your mother when _she_ played hard to get."

Lois forced herself to collect her wits and settle down somewhat when she realized that, in spite of the evil of these two conspirators, their trap had failed.

"Thank God I woke up before that bastard could lay a hand on me," she gratefully said to herself.

Silas thought about that. Clearly his timing was off in his attempt to play matchmaker, but maybe there was still time to fix the situation.

"Hmm, you're right. I should have measured the amount better," he conceded. "Say, how much do you weigh, by the way?"

Lois gritted her teeth, which still had the tang of Hunter's blood on them. She had had enough of this patriarchal nightmare and trying to enlist sympathies he evidently did not possess.

"You listen to me, Daddy, and you listen good. I'm already married to a damn good man, and it'll be springtime in Hell before I give him up."

"No, _you_ listen," Silas countered with what could have mistakenly been called compassion, however twisted. "It's obvious that you didn't know what you're doing, back then, Sweetheart, but as your father, I understand why you did it. You were just curious, or taking it out on your mother, whichever sound's better. If you turn your back on this foolishness right now, I'll take you back with open arms before the wedding."

Lois stood resolute and assumed a haughty pose. "Yeah? And what about Mother? I'd like to hear how she feels about all of this."

Silas gave a dark smile to her challenge. "That'll be hard to hear, Pumpkin, since she's on her deathbed with a broken heart because of that stupid stunt you pulled, running away with that damn slave."

If Lois thought she had an attack strategy against her father, it died stillborn with the notion that her running off with her husband was the cause of her mother's death. That would have been too much to bear.

"I don't believe you, and I'm not marrying that bounty hunter. I swear, I won't!" she said with stone in her guts, her face showing the struggle of fighting the effects of the lie Silas _had_ to be telling.

Silas scoffed at her turmoil, though it was obvious she was a fighter, just like him. Her loyalty to her mother might be enough to exorcise the spirit of doubt and betrayal he summoned. Still, he couldn't let fatherly pride dissuade him in his argument.

"Humph! You know, I'd ask you to be more like your sister Carolina," he commented grumpily, taking another route to weaken her. "But I guess you two couldn't _be_ more alike, taking turns with that fat fool of a husband. I bet his favorite song is _Carolina In My Mind_."

It felt strange to Lois, but at that moment, she could almost sense her father weaken. His arguments looking like they were going into more desperate paths.

Now it was Lois' turn to shake her head pityingly at Silas. "Is that the best you can do, Daddy? You can't make me jealous of my sister. So, now what?"

Silas simply bowed his head in mock deference, preparing to deliver the finishing blow that could only come from immutable fate.

"So nothing, but before you two ever get around to comparing notes, know this. Nathaniel Griffin and his sons are going to die as the private highlight to my little party tonight, and whether you marry Hunter or not, _that's_ what's going to happen."

Lois wanted to challenge what he said, to fight his edict and defeat it here and now, in his den. She scanned his face for loss of spirit, but it held firm as his iron eyes stared right back at her, her conviction trumped by his inevitable victory cloaked in the spectacle of celebration.

If he smiled, she would have screamed at the arrogance of it.

He did.

"I hate you!" Lois seethed as she turned her back on him and strode from the study. She never in her life thought she would ever say those words to him, but it only brought home the sad fact that things had changed, for good or ill. "I hate you so much!"

"Oh, come on, that's just your period talking." Silas said, looking on his daughter smugly as she departed.

The scent of barbeque and roasted pig, at one time faint, was now so heavy and hypnotic, that it drew May, Dewey and Vincent to the periphery of the Pewterschmidt mansion with the strength of a river current.

To avoid being seen coming to the house from up the road, they left it several yards prior and went around the property, plodding through a length of surrounding, undeveloped Pewterschmidt woodland.

Leaving Vincent under the cover a nearby copse of trees, the two teens crawled quietly up to the rough shrubbery that formed the demarcation between the home's vast landscaping and the dark wilderness behind them, and peered over it.

Lanterns and torches gently lit the manicured party area, adding to the festive air created by the hired company of musicians.

Off to one side, a small circus that was hired for the evening, was up and running, entertaining most of the women, male friends of the invited hoi polloi, and older children.

Food and drink-laden tables were set and always at the reach of someone hovering around them, serviced by apron-clad and liveried house slaves, while elsewhere on the grounds, the cream of Southern gentry, bluebloods and captains of industry, gathered into small, secretive groups, drank and talked shop.

"I don't know how we're gonna get in there with all those people walkin' around," Dewey fretted in a whisper.

May looked around, seeing the same impediments Dewey saw, and not once thinking of debating the issue of how difficult it was going to be to enter, but her eyes, nevertheless, sparked with the intensity of a soldier coming so close to the successful completion of a mission, regardless of how deep she was in enemy territory.

"It doesn't matter, Dewey. I made it," she said to him. Although it sounded dreamlike, it was the most solemn of affirmations to her. "I came all this way, and I can't believe it. I didn't think I could make it here. But I did it. I'm finally here."

Quietly, Dewey took a look at his beloved voyager, who transformed from a nervous, but determined girl, into a brave, road-tested, quick-thinking woman.

He had forgotten what it was like to take those first baby steps into the bigger world. The uncertainty. The danger. The wonder. Witnessing the trials of May's baptism by fire sparked a resurrection of wonder and hope in him.

"Aww, you knew I always thought you had it in you, girl," he commented softly. "But now that we are here, what do we do? Your folks could be anywhere. If we're gonna pass for house slaves, we're gonna need to dress like them, and I truly don't wanna clout any of 'em in the head to do that."

The desperate image of manhandling innocent servants for their clothes disturbed May enough to focus of the matter at hand.

"Me neither," she said. "Maybe we can call one over and ask them for some clothes."

"Risky. We'll have to wait 'till one is close enough, then we can call him or her," Dewey advised, watching the occasional armed overseer, or his underling, patrolling from the outer edges of the party.

"To do what, exactly?" asked an overseer who came up to them from behind.

May and Dewey turned to the man, wide-eyed. Although both of their terrified hearts banged against their chests like furious prisoners in a jail cell, their brains, remembering why they were here, grabbed a hold of their wits with Herculean strength, and shook the fear loose from them.

"Uh...mosquitoes, sir," Dewey answered, after taking an inspirational glance at the night sky. "That's why we're here."

The overseer looked at the two blacks, askance. "Huh? Who are you?"

May gave her friendliest, most passive smile from her years of serving the manor, saying, "We work for Master Pewterschmidt, sir. We're his house slaves. Is there anything wrong, sir?"

The overseer's face started to soften gradually around the edges. Seeing a black girl's innocent, pretty smile was a commonplace thing whenever one was in his presence, and so he seemed placated somewhat as he continued his interrogation.

"I wanna know what you two are doing out here," he said.

Dewey took over when he heard the question asked in a more reasonable tone, meaning that the man's guard was lowering enough for a quick con to slip in and hook its claws into him.

"Pest control," the boy answered simply.

The overseer looked puzzled at that. Not that a task like that _wouldn't _be relegated to slaves in the home, but out here in the wilderness?

"Pest control?" the man echoed, looking sincerely surprised.

"Yes, sir," Dewey maintained. "We're part of the landscaping detail. We're here to take care of the mosquito problem while Master Pewterschmidt entertains his guests at the party, sir."

"And how on Earth are you doin' that?"

This time, it was May's turn to hear the cues of a con going right, in this instance, the man actually showing some interest, and took over for Dewey.

"By giving the mosquitoes someone _else_ to bite, sir. After all, if there's only going to be one group of bloodsuckers tonight, it might as well be the ones we can squash." she explained with a nervous, poorly hid, laugh that Dewey joined in on.

Fearing that their deception was failing, May slapped at an imaginary mosquito on her arm. "See, sir? They're all over the place."

She reached over and gave Dewey's arm a slap when he was slow to play along. Catching on, he gave her arm a slap right back, whereas, she slapped his arm again, prompting another brachial slap from Dewey. And on and on, each trying to convince the overseer, and only succeeding in slapping each other faster and faster in nervous succession.

The overseer watched this strange tableau with practiced indifference. Black people were just too different for him to fathom. With a satisfied shrug, he turned to leave, saying. "Alright then, carry on," Then he stopped and faced them again. "But…"

May, who had stopped her assault on Dewey's limb, held her innocent servant's expression, but fear caused it to waver slightly. "But what, sir?"

"I just don't recall _seein'_ you two around here," the man said, walking close enough to study the two teens' faces more clearly.

May figured it would come to this and prepared for it. It was a slave's most well honed tactic when wanting to cast off suspicion or unwanted scrutiny. When in doubt, use your enemy's own preconceptions against him.

May nervously laughed it off. "Well, I-I know we must all look alike to you, but-"

The overseer raised his hand to end _her_ preconception of him. "Well, now that's the thing. I pride myself on never forgettin' a face, and I swear I never _see-_"

Without any warning, May drove the point of her shoe up into the center of his scrotum when she found herself stuck for answer, knocking the wind out of the man. Dewey then smashed him into unconsciousness with his sap to the back of the skull.

"So much for us all looking alike," Dewey quipped as he returned his sap to his pocket.

"Just our luck we'd run into the only overseer with photographic memory." May griped as the two carefully left the body behind the brush.

"We better scoot, cher," Dewey told her. "Somebody might've heard all that."

"Where?"

He pointed over to the performance area of the circus, getting a good feeling about it. "Let's go over there. They might have somethin' we can use to dress up in."

Seeing the logic of it, May conceded, said, "Good idea," and then followed him through the low, shadowy vegetation.

The duo slipped in and out of the cover of the closest trees near the bushes, heading for the even heavier cover they decided to exploit from the parked wagons of the small circus troupe a fair distance from the dinning area.

Upon reaching the wagons, the two quietly stepped out of the foliage that was completely shadowed by the broad vehicles that stood between them and the performers and patrons.

Keeping in the wagons' cover, the duo carefully split-up and inspected their plaques, looking for one specific trailer.

"Found it," May whispered. Dewey trotted over to her side to read the plaque she found on that wagon. _Make-up and Costume._

Dewey, being the taller of the two, slowly reached around from the obscured side and crept up the small stairs that led to the wagon's only door, praying that everyone was too busy or entertained to notice him, and that the door was unlocked.

Divine providence was with him that night as no one saw him reach up from his crouch and turn the doorknob. The door opened a judicious crack.

With a calling hiss, Dewey led May inside quickly and then silently closed and locked the door.

Safe inside, Dewey asked, "Well, what d'ya think?"

May looked around the dim interior. Essentially, it was a mobile dressing room, stocked with every kind of make-up needed on its compact shelves.

On the far side of the trailer was a deceptively roomy alcove where a rainbow collection of outfits and costumes hung neatly. Behind her was the wagon's sole make-up table and large, dominant mirror. Below it, the table's single utility bench sat in the dark.

"Not too shabby," she decided. "Let's see what we can find."

The circus' ringmaster, a pudgy, mustachioed man and the proud owner of a gin blossomed nose, wandered from the acts as they began to wind down in the wake of their earned applause.

Some of the acts would take a break before the second show, and some of the more versatile entertainers would plan to go back to the make-up wagon to get changed into the garbs of their secondary performances, but the ringmaster's need for the hidden bottle of bourbon in the wagon in question got him there first.

May and Dewey froze in a dumbstruck panic when the doorknob twitched and clicked insistently, and the door was then pounded upon.

The ringmaster slapped against the door when he couldn't avail against the lock. He didn't expect anyone to be inside right then, and normally he would have taken his leave if the need to enter wasn't significant, but he had been working all day helping with the setting-up of tents and so forth before the first act, and now his desire for the burning bourbon turned him into a puppet of his addictions. That door had to open.

"Who's in there? I-I gotta get in there for a minute. I have to get my medicine. I have a rare condition. I-I have to drink booze to feel better," the man half explained, half complained

Dewey gritted his teeth in indecision, then said, "Uh, we're not decent. G-Give us a few minutes to tidy up."

He went to the rack of costumes, desperately sliding past different ones, his mind going full-bore, appraising and rejecting whatever he saw.

It was just as hard coming up with a lie to go with whatever clothes he chose momentarily. Complications like these were making a seemingly simple intrusion dangerously…complicated.

Dewey glanced over towards May, hoping she might have found some last minute solution, but she looked just as lost as he did, until she abruptly brightened with a brainstorm.

She launched at the make-up shelves, snatching jars, bottles and brushes into her arms. She then sat herself quickly on the workbench and frantically motioned Dewey to sit before her.

"What? You got an idea?" he whispered as he leaned forward slightly at her urging.

"Mm-hm," she nodded before scooping a handful of white goop from a wide jar and plastering it all over his surprised face.

"Now, do me," May ordered, giving the jar to him and continuing to smear the colorant over every exposed inch of brown skin on his face at breakneck speed.

The ringmaster banged on the door once again, becoming more irate and ruddy, not only because whoever was in there was keeping him from his booze, but because now a small crowd of circus talent had gathered behind him, also wanting to use the wagon and making it all the more difficult for him to get to his prize drink without getting caught. He had heard enough nagging from the crew about his bouts of drunken bookkeeping to rival his late mother.

"C'mon, get out of there, will ya? I wanna get back on the wagon. I mean…I mean, some of us have to use the wagon, too!" The ringmaster yelled before the lock clicked and the door, at last, opened to reveal May and Dewey successfully dressed as a pair of pleasantly flustered clowns.

"Yes? How can we help you?" Dewey asked, his face beaming with a wide smile through the make-up.

Irritated, the ringmaster stared at the teens, who worried inwardly that they might have missed some part of their face in the painting.

"Who are you two? I don't remember you two being in my troupe," the man asked, miraculously not recognizing them as black, but not recognizing them as part of his repertoire, either.

"We took over for the other clowns," May lied. "They said that they were sick with, uh, jungle fever."

"Is that contagious?" asked a male performer, who thought that the more he knew about this mysterious ailment, the better.

"Ask your girlfriend," May told him before quickly turning her attention back to the ringmaster. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have to meet our public."

The circus leader immediately stood in pensive thought, afraid that the situation was running away from him as he tried to recall whether or not he had actually allowed this. "Wait. Did I approve of that?"

In the end, he couldn't even remember what he did last week for the life of him. With a resigning sigh, he said to himself, "I've gotta stop drinking while I'm doing paperwork."

He brought his attention back to May. "Alright, I'll let you go on, but, what in the world were you doin' in there? Why _lock_ us out of the make-up wagon? We need to use it, too, y'know?"

May paused for a moment to think of a lie, then jumped slightly when she felt Dewey give her fanny a pat and draped an arm over her shoulder affectionately. Obviously, he came up with something better.

"Well, my partner and I just wanted to relieve some stress before the night's festivities," Dewey said cavalierly to the man and the other males in the crowd. "You know what it's like, boys. Once you go clown, you never come down."

Amidst the knowing nods from the men, the ringleader agreed. "Oh! I gotcha!"

May, playing along, added coyly, "Yeah, sorry about that. He takes out that whoopee cushion, and I get weak in the knees."

"Well, alright, then," the ringmaster said, satisfied, at last. Then he noticed the stained front of her clothes. "Why is your costume wet?"

"Seltzer water! Honest!" May said hastily before she and her partner ran past the circus leader and his people, and into the festive, crowded background, to the whistling cartoon sound effect of acceleration. 

Lois stayed in the mansion's foyer out of a sense of security. She was still too shook up to return to her bedroom and wondered if the loathsome bounty man was still slinking in her room, licking his wounds and living for revenge.

She still didn't want to join in on the fun that she could hear going on through the front door, but she figured that if Hunter tried anything, she was close enough to other people that she could make it public for him.

As servants bustled around her non-stop, she took the time to guiltily watch them hurry from one task to the other, their faces showing the focus of the matter at hand rather than the sadness that was their lot.

That would be for later in the night, when exhausted bodies finally fell into ramshackle beds, prayers were whispered on bitter tears, and dreams of liberation, from the shackle, or from this hard life, gave such a deep comfort.

This, too, she knew, was just another part of the sad price she paid for loving a slave and bearing his children. To see the daily drudgery and constant abuse given to her husband, and worse, to her daughter and son, reflected in the faces of the other slaves around her, and, like in the past, unable to do anything to prevent it.

Every self-centered laugh she heard outside mirrored the once-false laughter and arrogant bearing she had to give to maintain the detestable pretense needed to preserve her family.

Regardless of the life-saving subterfuge it created, Lois always died piecemeal when it brought her family, or indeed, all slave familes under this roof, pain.

Would it relieve their emotional burden to tell them that she understood them now? That she was like them now, she wondered. Would they welcome her? Would they care?

It seemed doubtful. No matter how angry she may have gotten the master of the house, they knew that she would never face the hellish penalties that were reserved for the sad souls of the mansion.

Still, she wished that there was something she could do to erase the inequitable condition they had been cursed with.

So deep in culpable thought was Lois that she barely heard the tentative sound of a slave woman quietly calling attention to herself from behind.

"Ma'am, Mrs. Pewterschmidt would like to see you in her bedroom right away," the slave told her. Then she quickly curtsied and left before Lois could thank her for the message.

Hesitantly, Lois walked to the foot of the ornate staircase and stopped to look up its curvilinear height. There seemed no sense in stalling. Somewhere up there, a dying woman, alone in her bedroom, wanted to speak her last words to her.

The staircase felt like a mountain, as every ascending step she took extracted a wearying, emotional toll from her, closing the distance towards her rendezvous with bleak mortality, and setting in motion her own inevitable heartbreak.

When she reached the tall, graceful, closed doors of her mother's boudoir, her hands stopped just above the doorknobs.

What would she say to her mother after all this time? What _could _she say? That she was proud to turn her back on generations of family tradition just because she loved a black man? Or that her grandchildren were to die soon after their grandmother did?

It would have been nice to wish for a better setting to talk mother-to-daughter with her, one last time, she thought, but when Fate dropped opportunities in one's lap, he or she would do well to accept them when they came.

Lois squared her shoulders and reverently opened the doors with quiet resignation. She traveled miles for the chance to talk to her mother, before the end, and Lois Laura Bush Lynne Cheney Griffin was resolved to make the most of it.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter _Sixteen-_

Lois closed the doors behind her quietly as she studied the ominous bedchamber, keeping the lion's share of her attention on the four-poster bed that sat silent and solemn like a shrouded tomb in the center of the soundless room.

She lit a small lamp from a side table and held it up against the shadows and indistinct shapes that once had been familiar accents of Margaret's life, and now only resembled gloomy, forlorn artifacts populating an even gloomier crypt.

Lois felt small as she tiptoed deeper inside, like a child again, visiting the immensity of the parents' room, and easily equating its size with their power and authority.

She couldn't help doing that again, here and now, as she focused on the still bed and the dire thoughts of her mother lying impotently within it.

Margaret didn't possess the desire for moneymaking that Silas relished, or the killer instinct that he proudly spent years honing. Margaret was just the dutiful daughter of the Southern elite, groomed to entice rich men and bear successful heirs, and, in the meantime, enjoy the wealthy lifestyle a young woman of means was accustomed to.

But she also did possess a quality of tolerance that lent wings to her grace and bearing. An unflappable poise that weathered her through her courtship and marriage of Silas Pewterschmidt, which had to have been as tumultuous as it was eventful.

From up ahead, there came the softest inhalation, like a sigh or the half-heard sob of an apparition. Lois caught her breath. There was life, but it felt so faint as to be merely a candle flame, to be extinguished the slightest puff of air.

The covers shifted gradually, perhaps in reaction to the lamp light Lois was bearing, and it didn't seem possible to her daughter, but Margaret spoke remarkably clear in response to her presence.

"Lois? Are you there, Lois? Is that you?" Margaret whispered in the darkness.

Lois steeled herself to speak, now that the silence was broken.

"Yes," she spoke in a low tone. "It's me. Daddy told me you...didn't have much time."

"He's right." Margaret concurred. There was still strength in her whispery voice. "One of the few times he ever told the truth about anything. I'm dying, but I have the right to see you in the manner of my choosing. Come here."

"Yes, ma'am."

Lois slowly and quietly padded towards the bed with a grief-stricken awe, made even more so upon seeing her mother, at last, lying so still on her soft, ornate bed.

Even from where she was, Lois could feel the silent weakness of Margaret. As though where she lay had became a space of no joy or comfort, absent of life in the otherwise living world. A hollow void that now mirrored the one in her daughter's heart.

Lois sat on a padded stool by the head of the bed and reached over to hold her mother's hand. It felt so light and thin that she thought she was holding a skin-covered twig.

"I came such a long way to see you," Lois told her mother.

Margaret managed a faint smile to appear on her weak lips. "How are you doing? Ever since you left that day, I worried so much about you."

"I sent you letters as soon as we made it to Rhode Island," Lois explained. "I knew that _you_ would understand what I was going through. Do you still have them?"

The smile faded. "Lois, I'm sorry, but I never received any letters from you in all of two years."

Lois thought on that very briefly. The answer was only too obvious. She hung her head low to hide the dark anger, the shame, and the embarrassment from her mother.

"_Daddy!_ How could he _be_ so cruel?" she hissed in a whisper. "Not just to me and my family, but to _you_? You deserved to know how I was doing…and he couldn't even love you enough for that. God, I want to bash his _skull_ in!"

Angry, bitter tears ran down her cheeks in hot, wet trails. She didn't care how unladylike she looked, or what unladylike thoughts were reflected in her face. Margaret weakly held Lois' hand in a gesture of familial peace.

"You and your father have been at odds for years, now. You really should try to patch things up, while you're here. Besides, it doesn't matter, Lois. Not now, anyway. You're alive, so I needn't worry about that anymore. But I have to ask you. Does he make you happy? Was he worth it?"

"Nate? Oh, yes, Mom," Lois said, smiling wistfully. "He makes me _very_ happy. And worried, and even crazy, sometimes."

Margaret's smile beamed again. "Good. A husband should do all of those things. He's a man, after all. Black or white, it's in their nature. As long as he's good to you, he can do no wrong in my eyes."

Lois' smile shone in the dim room as brightly as her grateful eyes. This was the confirmation she always knew her mother had for her.

"Thank you, Mother. I always knew you understood. God, I wish we could have let you know so much sooner, so you could have given us your blessing then."

Even in her condition, Margaret could hear the regret in her daughter's voice. "What makes you think I hadn't done so when I found out?" she consoled her.

Lois couldn't speak any further. The sadness, the joy, the coming loss completely overwhelmed her, so she just carefully hugged her mother.

"Lois, I want to give you something," Margaret said. "Something that you need, and something that should have been given to you a long time ago. You are a young woman out in the world with a family to raise. You should have been given this by your father, but it shall come from me, instead."

Lois was both intrigued and confused. "What-what do you mean?"

"Knowing the history between you and your father, I knew he would probably never bequeath you any money if he died, so I saved a large sum of money and jewelry for you for the day when you were to be married. I had to hide it from him, so he wouldn't keep it from you. Listen to me carefully, Lois. Look in the one place your father wouldn't, and you will find it. My treasure to you and your family."

Lois gave that some thought. A treasure like that would solve a lot of problems back home.

'_Home,' _she thought with wistful sadness. The highs and lows of her wonderfully normal, wonderfully typical family life back in Quahog seemed so dreamlike, now. How could she have wished for anything more?

Chagrined, Lois shook her head and almost laughed at the irony-laced wisdom. It _would_ take the death of her own mother to see what other people, less wealthy, but more content, always saw.

That simplicity in life was the foundation, and happiness was the blessing. She deeply chastised herself for being so shallow and blind before. For trying to live two lives in Quahog, the _family_ woman, and the _rich_ woman of the past.

That time of privilege was over, and it was time to completely acknowledge the other thing in her life now that would give her happiness and sense of purpose. The thing she haven't stopped fight for since she left home.

"Mom, I'm not worried about any money," she told her mother. "I just want you to stay with me, and be the grandmother of my children. That's all I want."

Margaret managed to squeeze Lois' hand as tightly as her strength would allow to emphasize a point to her.

"Lois...it's my time, now, but you've _already_ blessed me with grandchildren, even for a little while. The little girl with the glasses, the heavy-looking boy and his little brother with the strange head?"

Lois' eyes grew in astonishment. "You knew about them? For how long?"

Her mother gave her a knowing smile. "Oh, long enough, Lois. Don't you think I'd see my daughter's features in her own? Or a strange resemblance between the chubby boy and a certain groom we had?"

"And you never said anything to Daddy about them? How come?"

Margaret's weak eyes shone with a defiant fire. "Because they are my _grandchildren_, Lois, even if your father wouldn't acknowledge it. I might not have been able to help them more, or help you with them, but I would never hurt them. And now you're here…to fight for them. You did more than any daughter could for this family and your own."

Lois had to smile to herself. Her mother knew, despite all of Lois' subtle, desperate tricks, and in her own way, protected her children, as well. The power of motherhood was strong, indeed. Even other mothers were no match for it. She only wished that her children could see their grandmother one last time, as a free family.

"Thanks, Mom," Lois said solemnly. "But what about Carolina?"

"Oh, don't get me started with her…" her mother said quickly, rolling her eyes.

After a short fit of coughs, she calmed down only because she was fading fast. "Anyway, Lois…one day, you'll have grandchildren…of your own, and then…you'll know _my_ joy, and how much...I...love you."

Concerned, Lois reached over to hold Margaret's hand again, to will strength into her through her touch, alone, but her mother's eyes began to close wearily.

Her mother's hand began to tremble softly, and Lois could feel that Margaret, who had waited against death itself for her daughter's return, was finally letting go.

"Mom?" Lois quietly called out, her heavy heart begging against the inevitable truth of her passing, but unhappily bowing to it, nonetheless.

Her mother's pale hand gently stopped moving a moment later, and Margaret Barbara Bush Marilyn Quayle Pewterschmidt finally lay still and at peace, the quietude of her body now adding to the sorrowful serenity of the bedroom.

All around her, Lois could almost feel the grim stillness in the room, in the air, in her very soul.

She knew she shouldn't have grieved, for her mother had departed from her suffering and entered a tranquility she never found in life, but Lois' heart could appreciate none of it, as she cried mournfully by her mother's side.

May smiled to herself in her clown white and floppy shoes. This felt more like a masquerade than a barbeque.

Being able to interact with white Southerners from so close and meeting no reprisals was a strangely exhilarating experience for May. Like petting a trained lion, or swimming with a shark that had just fed.

In between her occasional, friendly waves to passersby and the odd jig or two, she kept the tightest eyes open for her mother in the crowds.

It was decided between her and Dewey that if anyone would be out in the open at a party like this, it would be Lois, even if she weren't enjoying herself.

She noticed that during their reconnoitering, however, Dewey was keeping a respectable distance from her, and May idly wondered why he would be that far from her until she remembered that she said that she wanted him only as a friend after their escape from Stoolbend.

A part of her was pleasantly surprised that he was respectful enough to accept her wishes, and part of her was unpleasantly surprised that he would take her wishes seriously enough to accept.

"Maybe I was too quick with this _friends_ thing," she said to herself with a conflicted sigh.

A heavy-set woman in a huge bustle sauntered past May, and in her wake appeared May's inner voice dressed in a current man's suit and sporting a knowing glance.

'_Your boyfriend's entered another dimension,' _she said in an imitation of Red Sterling. _'A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of rejection. There's a signpost up ahead. Next stop, The Friend Zone.'_

'_Shut up,' _May thought back to her with a mental sigh, as the world around her slowly became immobilized and finally froze in her speed-of-thought perspective.

Her inner voice took a close look at May's disguise with bemusement before preening herself. _'Nice costume. Y'know, these men's clothes aren't half bad. I hope some enterprising lady makes this a trend someday.'_

May rolled her eyes heavenward. _'Great. My inner voice is a transvestite.'_

'_No, I'm a trendsetter, just like you. Well, I _am _you,' _her conscience corrected. _'Anyway, I'm glad that you thought to _think_ to me this time. No sense in everybody thinking you're touched in the head by talking out loud. Oh, and by the way, call me Ivy from now on.'_

May scrunched her nose in puzzlement. _'Ivy?'_

'_Yeah. I came up with it after you guys escaped from the pirates. Y'know, inner voice? I-v? Ivy?'_

May looked unimpressed.

Now Ivy rolled her eyes heavenward. _'Ugh. Anyway, you're thinking that you might have been a little hasty with his sentence, Your Honor?'_

May brought up her defenses fast. _'No! Y'know I do have the right to think about my decisions after I've made them.' _

Bittersweet memories of times when boys that she liked relegated her to the Friend Zone bubbled to the surface of her mind and she began to feel deeply conflicted.

Ivy continued. _'Well, I think you're thinking about what a good thing you might be losing.'_

May almost laughed out loud. _'Losing? What am I losing? Him? You know what he did. He's lucky I needed him to get this far, or I would have _dumped_ him, instead.'_

'_And look how far you _have_ gotten. And how well you two have worked together. You could have dumped him right after Smith dropped you two off, but you didn't.' _Ivy said, ending in singsong.

May stubbornly maintained her stance. _'I needed the company, that's all,'_ she thought curmudgeonly.

Ivy waved it off. _'Whatever you say, May. But look, the truth of what he did is out in the open between you two, and all that's left to do now is to deal with it.'_

'_I _am_ dealing with it,' _May reasoned. _'_I'm_ being the mature one and seeing Dewey simply as a friend, now. I think that's punishment enough for him, don't you?'_

Ivy struck a thoughtful pose. _'Hmm, you sure that's not the _only_ thing you're punishing him for?' _

'_What are you talking about?'_

Her inner voice crossed her arms and gave May that knowing glance again.

'_You knew he was right when he told you that you'd do the same thing to protect your loved ones.' _

May almost staggered from the accusation.

'_No, I didn't know,' _she said softly, all conviction bleeding away from her.

Ivy, smelling blood in the water, kept up the pressure with the smooth poise of a prosecutor. _'Well, aren't you here, now? Facing danger and death for them? Wouldn't you even _kill_ for them, if need be? You've already broken the _law_ for them. Or was it just righteous indignation on your part to say otherwise? To spare your ego at the expense of his?' _

May gritted her teeth at the allegation. She couldn't believe that she was getting angry at her inner voice. Getting angry with…_herself_.

'_What? What do you want me to do? Forgive him?' _she hissed at her. _'Have him turn over a new leaf? Not so easy when you've condemned your own people to slavery or death.'_

'_Even when you know why he did it?' _Ivy asked in what became to May to be an insufferably smug voice. May couldn't bare it any longer.

'_I don't _care_ why!' _she screamed in her mind in an aggravated sob. _'I don't _want_ to care why. I've got to harden my heart things like that, or we'll never survive!' _

Ivy looked at May, startled by the outburst and was said in it.

'_May…'_

May hung her head low in defeat. Her walls were breached and her true feelings were exposed.

'_We've got so little control over our lives here. We're told where to go and what to do. We're either treated like children, or treated like animals. It's like living in a box. The only truth we can hold in this world is that we only have each other to look out for, and if we can't even do _that_, then I'm...I'm scared that we're going to die as a people. It's too soon for that. Too soon,'_ she admitted, at last.

Ivy bowed to the naked power of that admission. The righteous fear and disenfranchisement May gave off was almost physical. She put a phantasmal hand on May's shoulder in comfort.

'_I understand what you're saying, May,' _said Ivy. _'But don't you think that Dewey feels the same? You said it yourself. We have no say in our lives in this country. Dewey was just as trapped in the box as any of us, but he didn't betray our people to get himself out, he did it to save his mother. If that's not looking out for someone, I don't know what is.' _

May closed her eyes, fatigued from fighting with her conscience, and she thought it odd that being forced to see Dewey's position would give her a strange sense of calm.

She didn't want to see his side of things because his actions felt like he never once gave a thought to what their people would suffer through as a result of them.

But that was the standard of living for their people. Never allowed to act, only being proactive, secretly, and always living _reactive_ to whatever was thrown against them. In seeing _Dewey's_ reaction to what was thrown against him, she couldn't see his mother, only the racial self-destruction.

'_Was I always this angry? I don't know what to think,' _she confessed wearily. _'Something in me wants to forgive him, even when I know he doesn't want to forgive himself.'_

Ivy faced May, wisdom swimming in her brown eyes. _'May, we don't always get to choose the battles we fight, but we can choose what's worth fighting for. He chose his mother, and you chose your family.' _

As Ivy began to fade from May's sight and people around her began to move once more, she gave May a knowing smile.

'_Who knows what the two of you may chose _next_ time,' _the inner voice said before she vanished in the midst of the partying hustle and bustle.

May stared into space with a confused look. What did Ivy mean by _next_ time? Could she could get things to the way they were? Get Dewey back with open arms and a clean slate?

Well, if it were possible, then his guilt and her condemnation would have to be banished from their relationship. She knew he hated and blamed himself even more than he hated and blamed his former owner. A self-loathing that steady and consistent could never make for a loving and, hopefully, lasting bond. He would, somehow, have to free himself of it, just to be a better person overall.

And what would make _her_ a better person overall? She pretty much made her opinions clear to him about how she felt. But that would just sour what they had, too. She would have to be more understanding of his position and hope that it would lead to her forgiveness, or it could get no farther.

A cursory thought about time brought May out of her funk and made her refocus her actions to looking for her mother. Troubled love lives would have to wait.

She turned around to press forward when her face pressed into the chest of a collided stranger.

She was about to back up and apologize for the accident, when a voice she hadn't heard in two years and made the skin on her arms tingle in fear.

"Watch where you're going. You're going to get clown white all over my new suit."

_Silas._

May backed up to see her grandfather look as imperious as ever she remembered him. Behind him were a few toadying business associates and their wives following him like goslings, but keeping respectfully silent until they were given the all clear to fawn.

She could feel her inner voice give her a mental kick to get her to stop staring at the man in terror. Freed from her paralysis, May took a hop back and gave a deep, exaggerated bow to Silas.

"Hoo, hoo, hoo!" May said jovially while pulling out a comically oversized pocket watch. "My watch must be running great, 'cause I just found the man of the hour!"

"Whatever, just give people nightmares someplace else," he ordered with a grumble. "Bad enough my selfish daughter couldn't be bothered to enjoy herself here tonight."

May's heart jumped at the mention of her mother. Maybe there was a way she could trick Silas into bringing her to see Lois.

"Oh, I'm sorry she's such a grumpy Gus," May commiserated as she rubbed her eyes in a pantomime of crying. "She should appreciate what you do for her more."

Silas perked up in indignant agreement. "Yeah! You're right, clown. I bust my ass to make this the _best_ party around. The least she could do is get out of the house and mingle. If she doesn't like that Hunter guy, I'm sure there are plenty of bachelors out here she could snag. Am I right?"

"Oh, absolutely! Tell you what. Why don't you introduce me to her, and I guarantee that I'll make her the happiest lady in the south," May advised, barely hiding the slyness in her voice.

"Really? You're _that_ funny?"

May struck an inflated pose of confidence "That's what they tell me!"

"Okay then," Silas allowed thoughtfully. "I like a good deal. I'll take you to her."

"Wonderful!" May gushed.

"If you can make _me _laugh," Silas finished. His sycophants, who couldn't understand why a clown was commanding so much of Silas' attention at the moment, wished nothing but failure for this bothersome jester.

May locked her smile into place, but began to panic inside. How on Earth was she going to be able to make that devil smile, much less laugh? He was, in her estimation, one of the evilest men she knew and could probably give Old Man Ragg back in Quahog a run for his money. It would have been clear that they had the same ugly sense of humor.

Then the light bulb burned in her mind like a lighthouse. Crass jokes for a crass man. Simple.

May pantomimed someone swooning, eliciting Silas to ask, "What's the matter with you?"

Holding her head, May said in a woozy voice, "Oh, nothing, sir. It's just my time of the month."

That struck Silas as odd. "You clowns get periods?"

"Sure do," said May, acting as though she and Silas were doing a comedy skit. "Say, how do you know when a clown's on her period?"

"How?"

"You see confetti on the toilet seat," May said with an expectant grin.

Silas stood stone-faced, apparently failing to digest the punch line, while his entourage grinned in anticipation of their host tearing down this poor comedienne before moving on.

Then Silas brightened and gave a bemused chuckle to May, which made the hopeful, young clown smile all the bigger.

"Ha! That's not bad. I gotta remember that one," he said.

He started to say something else when one of his followers quickly whispered in his ear. He then took an appraising look at May that she noticed.

"What wrong?" she asked.

"My friends here bet me a hundred dollars that you couldn't make me laugh again," Silas explained to her. "But you're a trained professional, so I know that this is just a piece of cake for you. Go on. Make me laugh again."

May laughed nervously at the challenge but fumed on the inside. She gave him what he wanted. She made him laugh. She might be talking to her mother right now if it weren't for those rotten yes-men behind him.

Her mind ran through every joke and limerick she could remember, but none of them sounded tasteless enough to satisfy Silas.

"Uh, quick question, boss," May asked. "What will happen if I can't make you laugh and you lose the bet?"

"Oh, I'll just get two of my men to tie you to horses and pull you apart," Silas said matter-of-factly without missing a beat.

May called out to Dewey immediately. "Dumbbell!"

Dewey, being not too far from May's position, heard her easy enough, and so, jogged to where she was, watching her company carefully.

"What can I do for you, Ding-a-Ling?" he asked, keeping his smile up while thinking of escape strategies.

"Who's he?" asked Silas.

"He's my partner. I don't go anywhere without him, so if you really want to laugh then we'll more than make that happen," May explained before turning to the other clown.

"Dumbbell, honey, this is Silas Pewterschmidt, our esteemed host. He was just bet a _lot_ of money that we can't do our job and make him laugh. Isn't that funny?"

Dewey glanced at Silas and saw him for the unexpected impediment he was. Maybe he could convince the old man to let them go.

"But the kids over by the big tent really had their hearts set on hearing your rendition of _I Started A Joke_. _That's_ funny," Dewey cajoled good-naturedly, hoping Silas would relent.

"Apparently not as funny as us being drawn and quartered if Mr. Pewterschmidt loses this bet, darling," May countered good-naturedly, knowing that Silas _wouldn't_ relent. "Besides, if he likes our act, he'll take us to see his _daughter _so we can cheer her up. Isn't that nice?"

Dewey reconsidered as fast as he changed expression upon hearing this news. This certainly changed things for the better. He began looking around for something to make an act out of, something easy enough for the two of them to do that, at least, looked complicated and entertaining.

On a nearby picnic table he saw four bottles of liquor and came up with his solution.

Gently taking May by the arm, he led her to the table, whispering, "We're gonna have to play this by ear. Do you know how to juggle?"

"Not really."

"It's easy. It's like a game of catch," he told her while grabbing the bottles and handing two of them to her. "Just toss one to me as I toss one to you."

When they walked back to Silas and his group, Dewey and May separated from each other and stood a few feet apart.

Facing each other, the two slowly threw a bottle at one another, caught it and threw the other bottle to the other in smooth succession.

For a while, it looked like a legitimate juggling act, but it didn't take long before the sycophants grew tired of the slow pace of the performance. In fact, they began to complain as some of the group went over to stand behind Dewey, and then May, eager to examine how good they were from up close, which only made May visibly nervous.

Guessing correctly that the suck-ups, and by extension, Silas, were getting bored with the act, Dewey suggested to May, jovially, "Hey, how about we pick up the pace a little bit. Toss 'em at me faster, okay?"

May wished she hadn't heard that, because she was having a hard time keeping the bottles moving on her end at her current speed. But her chances of seeing Lois depended of how well they performed, so she tossed the bottle in her hand slightly faster while she just barely caught the one thrown by Dewey.

"O-Okay! S-Slow down, whoa!" May bade. In fighting her instinct to duck when a bottle flew disturbingly close to her head, she managed to snatch the bottle in one hand, but threw her other bottle in a barely controlled, underhanded toss that zoomed past Dewey's outstretched hand.

The free bottle collided with the face of a sycophant that was the closest to Dewey, knocking her out cold. That was enough of a distraction for him to fumble _his_ throw into something that even May thought was too reckless to catch, and she leaned over to dodge the spinning projectile, which sailed past and smashed into the face of another toady that stood too close to her.

Their finishing tosses, also going wide and wild due to their distress at the sight of their first bottles breaking on skulls, rendered two more victims on either side comatose, and caused the rest to run back to Silas for mutual protection.

Disheartened by the lack of laughter, May went on autopilot. Seeing a rack of flaming shish kabobs on the same table, she ran over and grabbed one. Then she ran back, picked up one of the intact bottles on the ground, and took a gulp of the alcoholic contents, being careful not to swallow it.

Dewey and everyone nearby had an idea of what she was planning to do, but doubted that she could pull it off.

Holding her head up high and holding the fiery shish-kabob even higher, May aimed her lips at it, ready to spit a stream of booze at the flames to turn it into a beautiful conflagration.

With an inopportune sneeze, however, she became a living flamethrower, blasting a woman who was walking by with a blazing spray that engulfed her dress and turned her into a panic-stricken fireball.

As the woman ran around frantically, completely deaf to May's impassioned apologies and offers for help, Dewey went over to May.

"He's not laughing," he told her. "Do what I do."

Dewey ran to a patch of empty space and began to do a hopping dance that May tried to copy to the best of her ability while she stood beside him.

"What kind of dancing is this?" May asked when felt a cool wind begin to whip up around her and an overcast of storm clouds suddenly appeared over the partiers and blocked out the starry sky.

"Not sure," Dewey admitted while he continued to gyrate. "But I saw an Indian medicine man do it once during a pretty hot summer."

The dance, which turned out to be a powerful rain dance, unleashed a temporary thunderstorm that blasted three random people with booming lighting strikes.

Stopping their barometric boogie immediately after the electrical attacks, May and Dewey watched the storm quickly dissipate, and then studied the accidental damage they wrought.

Crestfallen, they turned their attention to a still unsmiling Silas, fearing the worse, when suddenly he gave a loud, uncharacteristic belly laugh and clapped his hands vigorously.

"Bravo! Bravo!" he shouted. "Now _that_ was a stellar performance. Lois is going to love you two. What do you two call your act?"

Dewey and May were so deep in shock that they succeeded, that they almost didn't answer in time. With a mutually knowing look, they struck a cocky, theatrical pose, and crowed, "We are...The World's Most Dangerous Clowns!"

Taking a sincere bow and curtsey, the two clowns then sprightly followed Silas as he led them towards the front of the mansion, while his flatterers and other people who witness the performance, reluctantly applauded and thanked the gods that they weren't on the receiving end of the clowns' act.

Except for one woman, who leaned over to her date to tell him, "Eh, too experimental for me."

May felt as though she were walking on electric clouds as they rounded the corner to the front yard. Every step was more energizing than the last as thoughts crammed and whirled in her mind on what to say when she finally was reunited with her mother.

She already knew what to do when she saw her and she hoped that she wouldn't break Lois' back when she grabbed her in the tightest bear hug she could manage.

"I can't wait to meet your daughter, Mr. Pewterschmidt," May gushed as they reached the wide, ornate front doors.

"Well, if you two were half as good as you were back there, you'll have her in stitches, and then she can stop all this nonsense and marry The Hunter," Silas praised them as he opened the doors.

May felt like she was punched in the gut. Marry The Hunter? Why? What about Nate? Where were he and her brothers? Was she actually too late for them?

Dewey glanced over at May, concerned about how she would take such news, and was moving to put a comforting arm around her when the blood in his veins ran cold from who he saw standing before them.

Theodore Hunter stood in the doorway and was preparing to open the doors when Silas beat him to it. His beak of a nose was bandaged at the end, and his eyes shone with the light of bloodlust.

Dewey carefully examined his erstwhile owner, thankful for the strength of his disguise, and noticed that he only wore one of his guns on his hip instead of his customary two. Maybe he could find it and put it to better use, he mused.

Along with his patched-up nose and his sour disposition, the teen also wondered who put The Hunter in so sorry a state, and what he could do, as a conscientiously vengeful citizen, to worsen it.

"Oh, Hunter," Silas said. "Have you seen Lois? I want her to check out these clowns from the circus I hired. Phenomenal actors."

"No, Mr. Pewterschmidt, I haven't seen her, nor do I want to at present, sir," Hunter huffed indignantly.

May was surprised to see the vaunted Hunter in the flesh, at last. Appraising him with a critical, feminine eye, she thought, _'Weird clothes, and looks like a cross between a dime novel cowboy and Ichabod Crane. Definitely not Mom's type, the bastard. She likes her coffee black, anyway. I better be careful around him.'_

"What? _She_ did that to you?" Silas asked while he looked at the nose this way and that. "That's just how she is. She plays rough, that's all. Don't let it discourage you."

_She? _May and Dewey came to the same incredible answer together. Lois somehow actually hurt him. Where Dewey was amazed by the woman's courage in standing up to him, May's heart swelled with the deepest of pride in her mother's feisty spirit. Now she knew where she got hers.

"I promise you, Mr. Pewterschmidt, it won't," The Hunter swore. "However, I wanted to see _you_, sir. It's late, and the time of the grand finale is upon us."

"What?"

"The grand _finale_, sir," Hunter explained incredulously. How could he forget this? "The grand…We're gonna kill Nate and his boys, or aren't we?"

May breathed a silent sigh of thanks. Her father and brothers were still alive.

"Oh! Oh, yeah! Yeah, let's do this thing. Sorry. Almost forgot."

Silas turned to his guests as Hunter walked past them and went around to the back of the house.

"Uh, look, sorry for all of this. I forgot that I had a prior commitment I had to attend to. I guarantee, Lois is around here somewhere. Just ask one of the slaves where she is, they'll help you find her. Excuse me."

And with that, Old Man Pewterschmidt skipped and pranced eagerly after The Hunter like a schoolgirl while May and Dewey stood in the doorway not sure how to proceed.

"Well, that was damn peculiar," said Dewey. "Well, cher, what do you want to do now?"

May was silent, weighing everything to come up with the best course of action to this last minute scenario, and coming away torn.

She could look for and eventually find her mother, but that would use up time that could be spent trying to save her father and siblings.

In the end, she opted for logic and not sentiment to see her through this. Lois wasn't in any danger, so priority fell to Nate and the brothers.

"Mom's safe, for now," May said. "Let's trail Grandpa and that goon, and get my dad and brothers back."

"Alright, then."

The two teens crept around the corner of the large home and chanced to see the two men leave the lonely work shed by the stables with their prisoners stumbling ahead of them, having just been woken up.

The teens watched them all disappear into a section of the woods that surrounded an outer portion of the property.

"We better go and get Vincent," May suggested, and they set off into the woods behind the circus tents to find their companion.

The study was quiet, but Lois could still feel her father's presence in the room while she looked around. The voice of her mother gently drove her on as she peered into drawers and scanned shelves for the answer to the clue that could assure her family's fortune for years to come.

She leaned against the front of Silas' broad, wooden desk to rest and ponder once again on the clue Margaret gave her.

_Look in the one place your father wouldn't, and you will find it. My treasure to you and your family._

"Where _is_ the one place Daddy wouldn't look?" Lois asked herself as she glanced around every corner of the room, then wondered idly, "Where's the one place in this room _I_ hadn't looked."

All around her were her father's mementos of a lifetime of hard work and double-dealing, knick-knacks and souvenirs. She had to logically assume that all of these things were items that Silas would look at. Perhaps it wasn't in his study at all, but somewhere even more private, more secret.

Lois didn't want to leave just yet, however. Something was keeping her there, a sense that the answer was hidden in plain sight and was just under her nose.

And still she could swear she felt her father's eyes watching every move she made, making her feel even more like an intruder than she was.

She was about to dismiss the sensation as nothing more than anxiety caused by her fear of being caught, when she absently looked up towards the ceiling and caught her breath in bemusement.

The portrait of Silas Pewterschmidt, pretentiously large and imposing, loomed from its resting place on the wall, its painted eyes looking down on Lois commandingly.

But as soon as she smiled in triumph, she frowned when she realized that that was the biggest thing he would ever look at, and in deed, he would never take his eyes off it most days.

Despondent, Lois got up to leave. She was almost through the threshold when a strange thought, a leap of faith, took hold of her and she walked back to face the portrait.

Silas was standing imperiously before a bucolic backdrop, wearing his best suit. She slowly focused on the suit. On the torso. Beneath the jacket, the vest and the shirt. What was the one thing he wouldn't look into?

Her head cocked to one side as the possibility of the answer moved her from within.

And Lois smiled once more.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter _Seventeen-_

"C'mon, now. You wouldn't just kill a man with an empty stomach, would you?" Nate asked with all sympathy while he and his sons were being led further and further away from the scent of barbeque, the sounds of partying, and relative safety, going deeper into the ebon woods.

"Naw," said Hunter with a slight smirk of anticipation. "I'm just gonna kill you with my gun. Now, shut up. We're almost there."

The grim march continued for a few more yards, pushing through a few more trees and brambles before emerging on the other side and standing onto a small, moon-lit clearing that terminated a wide path that wend its way through the forest. In its center stood the _Hessian _and its attendant team of horses.

"Where are you taking us, this time?" Curtis asked boldly.

"Nowhere," his grandfather answered for him. "El Cheapo here says he couldn't afford to park up front."

"Well, what could I do?" Hunter asked defensively. "You charge an arm and a leg for valet parking. I'm not made of money."

"Nevermind. Let's just get this over with. I want to be back in time for the fireworks show. I paid good money to see people's reactions to that," Silas said.

"Speaking of fireworks," said Hunter, as he lined a chained Nate and Curtis, holding Huey, up against the damaged door of his modified coach. "For you, fellas, you can see them early. Just look down this barrel, here."

"But if you shoot us, someone'll hear it, and come running to catch you," Curtis reasoned bravely.

Hunter was so taken aback that he chuckled at him. "This is the south, boy. It's obvious that you didn't think this through."

"Oh, yeah," the teenager amended. "I kinda forgot, with all the tension of you getting ready to shoot us, and all."

Silas gave the proceedings a dismissive wave while he headed for a nearby tree. "I'm going to go over there."

"So you can think about what you did, long and hard, and then come to the conclusion that we're all human beings and you'll let us go?" asked Nate hopefully.

"No. So my suit won't get stained with the blood of the condemned," the old man said with a wicked smile.

"Damn."

"You're idiots, the both of you," Hunter assessed while idly checking to make sure his gun was loaded.

"You're preaching to the choir, here," Huey said under his breath.

"But you know, I'm not without compassion for the lesser races," Hunter continued. "Just ask the Indians. I _always_ strive to shoot 'em in the head before I torch their camps. It's more humane, I think. So, famous last words?"

Nate and his two sons gave each other a knowing look and launched into a song.

"One step beyond!" they cried out.

It took a few minutes to free the massive painting from its place on the wall, but Lois had succeeded in laying it down on the floor.

In hindsight, she was feeling a bit foolish bringing the kitchen knife over the portrait's chest, as though she were about to deliver the killing stroke to a two-dimensional giant laid low, but she had to follow through with her hunch. Time was short.

Forcing any thoughts of what her father would do if he saw the vandalizing that was about to take place, Lois held her breath and brought the blade down.

As Nate and Sons continued with their stirring rendition of Madness' _One Step Beyond_, Hunter rolled his eyes with indifference, but caught the sight of Silas pitching forward in sudden discomfort from where he leaned against his tree.

Keeping the gun trained on the captives, Hunter asked Silas, "Are you alright? What's wrong?"

Silas took a clearing breath, gradually stood upright, though his face was still flushed, and achingly turned back towards the direction of the mansion.

"I…I feel a…disturbance in the Force," he gasped as he held his chest, fighting for composure.

"What is that? Like a heart attack, or somethin'?"

"Something's wrong back home," Silas explained. "I've got to get back."

Hunter didn't understand what was happening to the old man, but with a gun in his hand pointed at unarmed people, he felt calm and in control, so he conceded. "Alright. Go on, then. I'll tell you how it turned out."

Silas nodded, managed to stumble, and then trudged unsteadily through the foliage surrounding the clearing in time to call out to Hunter, "Spit on their graves for me," before disappearing.

With that out of the way, Hunter turned back to the singers, clearly looking unimpressed.

"Alright, you two, shut up with that racket," he commanded. "_One Step Beyond_ and _Our House _are overrated, anyway. Besides, I like _House Of Fun_, if you must know."

"How does that go, by the way?" Nate asked as a stall.

"What? Never heard of it?" Hunter asked, genuinely surprised by their ignorance as he tapped his toe to the beat and waved his gun in time to the song playing in his head, reminiscently.

(Hunter)

_Good morning, miss,_

_Can I help you, son?_

_Sixteen today,_

_And up for fun,_

_I'm a big boy now,_

_Or so they say,_

_So if you'll serve,_

_I'll be on my way_

(Huey)

_Box of balloons,_

_With the feather-light touch,_

(Curtis)

_Pack of party-poppers,_

_That pop in the night,_

(Nate)

_A toothbrush and hairspray,_

_Plastic grin,_

_Miss Clay from the corner,_

_Has just walked in_

Chorus:

(All)

_Welcome to the House of Fun,_

_Now I've come of age,_

_Welcome to the House of Fun_

_Welcome to the lion's den,_

_Temptation's on his way,_

_Welcome to the House of-_

"Shut up, dammit!" Hunter yelled, returning to his senses. "And get ready to kiss your asses goodbye."

Hunter cockily stepped up to Nate, waving his pistol in his full face. "Oh, and don't think I've forgotten what you bastards did to me, too. That was pretty clever of you not to tell me about your daughter. Could have screwed up my payday because of that. Well, I hope she appreciates what you did for her, because I doubt she'd be stupid enough to come up here for you."

Taking a steady aim at Nate's forehead, Hunter squeezed the trigger smoothly, but stopped short of firing when he heard a noise coming from the forest ahead of him.

"Mr. Pewterschmidt? Is that you?" he asked.

Killer and captive alike froze at the bounding appearance of a dark rider wearing a long, tattered, hooded, cloak and brandishing a dangerous looking saber, riding a ghostly white stallion up the clearing's trail towards them.

Sitting to the rear in silhouette was the rider's companion, a hooded, smallish figure whose eyes were inscrutable and reflective in the full glow of moonlight.

Back at the circus' _Make-up and Costume_ wagon, a performer irritably stepped out and asked anyone who could hear him, "Hey! Where's the Phantom costume, and what happened to that prop saber?"

The rider menacingly swung the sword high overhead, catching Hunter's attention long enough for the smallish companion to reach to the thigh and, in one deft move, throw a keen, gleaming blade down on the bounty man.

The cutting edge slashed across the back of Hunter's gun hand, opening it with vivid red before embedding itself in the side of the _Hessian_. The fiery shock of pain caught him by surprise, and he dropped the pistol to the earth.

The rider steered the horse to walk towards the injured man, the saber now brought low enough to decapitate, should the rider choose to charge.

Torn between rushing down to pick up his weapon, and running away, grasping his hand in pain, Hunter opted quickly for running, as the smallish companion hopped off of the steed and the rider proceeded to bear down on him, chasing him into the woods with a thunderous rush, where they both soon vanished into the wilderness.

When the clearing quieted some, Nate and his sons watched the lone, small figure with slight trepidation. They were thankful for the timely save, but they still weren't sure of the duo's intentions.

Curtis summoned his courage, deciding to break the ice and speak first.

"Thanks a lot for the save, whoever you guys are," he called out. "You're heroes."

"Yeah!" Nate concurred. "We _really_ appreciate this, fella."

The companion stared with silent focus at the captives, then walked slowly, carefully, up the path, stopped after a few steps, and then tore full speed towards a startled Nate.

The companion scooped the gun up from the ground near Nate's feet and swept the barrel up towards his terrified face in a hurried motion.

Nate screamed as the gun exploded under his jaw. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled his nostrils, and his ears rang as he fearfully opened his eyes and looked down to see his iron collar unhinged and hanging loosely from his neck, its lock obliterated by a point blank shot.

The companion approached a frightened Curtis and delivered the shot that destroyed his collar, as well.

Trying to catch his breath, Nate was about to thank their benefactor again, when the companion unexpectedly tossed the gun back to the ground, opened arms wide and clutched Nate's rotund body in a hug so tight, it looked as though the companion was attempting to lift him.

"Uh, are you okay, Dad? Who is this guy?" Curtis asked, dismayed, hoping it wasn't some nutcase hermit who just happened to live in that particular section of the wood, disturbed by all the noise and commotion of earlier.

Nate uncomfortably looked down on the cloaked and clinging figure. "I don't know, Curtis. How do you say, "You're violating my personal space" in Jawa?"

When the figure suddenly broke off from holding him, Nate breathed a sigh of relief from the touchy-feely stranger, but then caught his breath in surprise and shock when the figure pulled down the concealing hood to reveal the tearful, grinning face of his daughter.

"_May!_"Nate cried upon seeing her, not believing that she was actually here, body and soul, in Virginia.

His moves were automatic, instinctive. He just gathered little May up in a bear hug that threatened to compress her in his large arms. She didn't care one bit as she lost herself in his and her brothers' following crush.

Nate held her at arms length. He had to fully see her again to know that she was real. The impossible miracle that she was alive after obviously journeying so far from the safety of home almost killed him with a joyful gratitude that was otherworldly.

He gave her a strong, thankful kiss on the forehead, and then questions that he so desperately needed to know from her, poured forth like a torrent.

"May, darlin', what are you _doing_ here? How did you-How did you get all he way _up_ here? How did you know where we'd be?"

May proudly wiped her eyes and smiled at her family's incredulous looks. It would be quite a tale in the telling when she finally found time to recount it.

"I'll tell you all about it later, Dad," May told him. "I promise, but right now, we gotta get out of here."

"Where's Mom?" Curtis asked her. "Is she here with you?"

"No. She's still back at the house," she reported. "Where's Grandpa? Wasn't he out here with you?"

"He ran _back_ to the house after saying something about his chest hurting," her father explained.

"Then it's gonna be harder to get her out," May concluded.

"And that's why _I'll_ be going back there to get her out," Nate said with steady authority. "Your mother and I have got to face Silas and finish this once and for all."

May gave him an incredulous look that bordered on the betrayed. They were so close to freedom, now, and she wondered if he could see the disbelief on her face. She didn't come all this way just for this to fail because of foolish, misplaced heroics.

"Finish _what?_"she argued_._ "What are you going to do, _kill_ Grandpa and have a _real_ bounty put on your head? Let's just all get Mom and get out of here!"

"Yeah!" agreed Curtis. "May's right. Let's get Mom and _book!_"

Nate turned to Curtis, looking stern. "Where? Home? And hope that Silas doesn't send another slave catcher our way again? No, kids. We need to make a stand, tonight, but I don't want you coming with me. It's much too dangerous for you, baby girl."

May couldn't believe this. "Dad, I love you, but this is bullshit."

"Language, young lady!" Nate scolded her for her outburst.

May forced herself to calm down after the reprimand. "Sorry, Dad, but I'm not a little girl anymore. Do you know what I had to go through to find you? I stowed away on a steamship, fought pirates, crossed half the east coast, got caught by slave catchers and almost got sold, lost my virginity-"

Nate, Curtis and Huey's heads snapped up. _"You what?" _they asked in shocked unison.

"I what?" she faux-asked with guilty speed.

Nate waved it away for later. "Look, May, I want you to know that you comin' up here by yourself, to save us, was the bravest thing I ever seen. God _bless _you, girl. But as long as your mother stays with us, your grandpa's just gonna do this all over again."

"So then, what are you saying, Dad?" asked Curtis, worryingly. "You're going to leave Mom?"

"The hell I will," said his father.

May tentatively asked, "Then...are you _really_ gonna kill Grandpa?"

Nate watched his children look on him with expectation while he stood in silence. He had never killed a thing in his life, and wasn't sure how to proceed now.

And in the midst of that indecision, he could clearly see that May was in the right. Visiting evil with evil would undo everything she did to reach him and the others, and would destroy his family as surely as Silas' schemes would have.

He turned to face May, and put his hand on her small shoulder.

"No. I won't kill Silas. You're right, May. It _would_ do more harm than good," he said to her, watching her expression brighten with relief as he came to his senses. "Listen to me, though, 'cause you're the oldest. I'm going back to find your mother, and if we're not back here in twenty minutes, I want you to use this coach to take your brothers back home to Quahog. Can I trust you with that?"

May's stomach dropped in shock. "No, Dad! I came all this way to help get all of us back. _All of us. _We all go home together, or we don't go home at all."

"Damn straight. We can't leave you and Mom here to die. We're staying, if it comes to that," Curtis told him firmly.

"We're _not_ cowards, Dad," May declared hotly.

Nate gave May a gentle smile. "I know that, darlin'. You proved that by coming here. A weaker person would have probably stayed behind, but you didn't. You're the strongest person here, and it's because you're so strong that I need _you_ to do what's best if your mother and I don't make it back."

"Don't say that." May told him softly. She didn't want to entertain any notion that it could all go tragically south.

"Can I trust you?" he asked.

"Don't ask me to do that," May begged her father.

"I have to," he pressed, looking into her eyes until she broke down and couldn't return their gaze. "Can I trust you to bring our family back safe and sound?"

May sadly knew what he asked of her. To save the name of Griffin. To keep the legacy alive through her and her brothers if Silas managed to get his revenge on the parents, at least.

"Yes, Dad," May said with quiet melancholy. "You can."

"Thanks, honey. I'll be back," Nate said, kissing her forehead once more before trotting through the same path he saw Silas go through earlier, on his way back to the mansion.

After seeing their father eventually get swallowed noisily into the forest, May leaned against the side of the _Hessian_ despondently.

"We've gotta do something, Curt," she said. "I've been back there. There're overseers with guns all over the place. If Grandpa finds out Dad's after him, hell, the guests will probably blow him away."

"I know! This is terrible," Curtis told her, then another thought intruded. "Wait. Was that guy on the horse…your boyfriend?"

May glowered at him. "Let's focus on Dad, okay?"

Curtis gave his sister a mischievous glance. "So, May," he teased her. "When you two did it, did he put a bag over your head?"

"Shut up, you fat knucklehead," May said simply.

A stray thought of their father getting cut down made Curtis soberly ask, "Are we really going to have to leave them?"

"Not if I can help it," May said with uncertain defiance. "But I don't know what we can do, if and when they'll need us."

She then took an apprehensive look into the shadowed woods where Hunter was pursued. "And as for Dewey, he may have gotten that bounty hunter scared, but it won't be long before he finds out that saber he's carrying is fake."

"Who is he?" Curtis asked, genuinely curious.

The question startled her with its forwardness. She wasn't really prepared to answer anything on Dewey just yet, but now that family was doing the asking, it didn't seem so intrusive.

Still, she found herself smiling self-consciously as she answered. "Oh, he, uh, helped me get here. He's, uh, a friend of mine," she stammered through what tried to pass for a nonchalant reply.

"You like him, huh?"

May was truly surprised by his sincerity, and decided that, all teasing aside, it wasn't an altogether uncomfortable question Curtis posed. So she looked deeply within herself for the answer, the honest answer, and found, that for all of his faults, Dewey was true to his feelings for her. Through mirth and misadventure.

"Yeah," she shyly admitted with a begrudging smirk.

Where once Huey had stood after being put down by Curtis, just a few minutes ago, May noticed only empty space, now.

"Hey! Where's Huey?" May asked frantically, looking around the wheels of the coach while Curtis scanned the ground as best he could in the moonlight.

"I left him near you so you could keep an eye on him," Curtis explained.

"Me?" May yelled, all thoughts of sibling bonding dissolving fast. "How am I supposed to know that? Don't blame me for letting him wander off. You could have just kept holding him."

"Do you know how much his head weighs?" her brother complained. "My arm got tired!"

As they fell into the old habits of complaint and insult, neither of them noticed Huey toddling across the top of the _Hessian_, undoing the leather tarp that covered it, and watching the Puckle Gun as it telescoped up from the roof of the coach.

The sound alerted the older brother and sister, and they looked to the top of the vehicle to see Huey give his most malevolent smile and wring his small hands menacingly.

Inspired, Curtis quickly went to inspect the coach's front boot. Undoing the leather straps revealed a small arsenal of grenades. The answer to their dilemma stood beautifully before them.

It wasn't too long before May and Curtis were giving _their _most malevolent smiles and wringing their hands menacingly, as well.

Lois held a weathered hatchet in one hand, and the cutout piece of canvas carefully in the other, as she studied its faint map on the other side.

Following the path that ran through the crudely drawn floor plan of the house, starting from the study, she found herself outside in front of the mansion, looking at one of the tall elegant columns that graced the façade.

Scrutinizing the map again, she saw an "X" sitting on one of the columns with the word "Hollow" written beside it.

Trusting in the faith that her mother wouldn't steer her wrong, and resigning herself to the fact that her father would lose no love on her for what she was about to do to his property, Lois ignored the quizzical looks of some of the partygoers, and raised her hatchet…

Silas stumbled wearily into the mansion from the rear entrance and marched double-time into his study. The shock that hit him rivaled his exhaustion in taking his breath when he looked in the room.

His great portrait, the image of his earthly, Machiavellian glory, lay discarded on the hardwood floor.

That affront alone would have had an entire slave family in his employ put to death, but what he saw next would have convinced him that nothing short of small-scale genocide of every slave he owned would salve such an insult.

"_What the fuck!" _he roared.

A gaping hole in the chest of the figure stood out in stark contrast to everything else in the painting, explaining the phantom pain he felt in the forest. But who would dare do this?

If it was an uppity slave, he or she would pay the dearest price for such rebellion, he swore.

Backing out of his study in a near-blind rage, he almost bumped into a tipsy woman unsteadily holding her glass of liquor.

"Hey! Your party's really picking up," she slurred. "There's a woman choppin' holes in your house with an axe. Do you know where I can get one, so I can join in?"

Silas ran past her to the front door in a cold dread. As if it couldn't get any worse tonight…


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter _Eighteen-_

Silas burst from the front doors so hard and fast that he almost tripped over the threshold. He recovered just in time to see Lois obliviously working up an unladylike sweat chopping a hole in the base of one of the mansion's columns.

He was about to roar the question of why she was destroying his home and private property, when he noticed something in the column about the same time that she did.

In the hollow darkness they both saw a small chest of jewelry and a large, dusty satchel of money tumble out of the rough incision.

Lois' face lit up with an eager grin as she reached for the treasure, but so consumed was she in gathering it up, however, that she failed to notice Silas angrily approach her from behind.

She felt a hand grasp her shoulder in a painful grip and spin her around with enough force to almost induce vertigo. Her vision adjusted in time to see Silas raise his other hand and bring her down to the ground with a jarring slap to the face.

Hurt and stunned in every conceivable sense, Lois could only call out, "Daddy!" before she doubled over from a sharply delivered kick to the thigh.

Silas, a born businessman who knew when his authority was being challenged, bore the full weight of his hateful, commanding stare into an incredulous, wide-eyed Lois.

"Shut up, you tramp!" he yelled at her furiously. "You had to do it, didn't you? You had to marry _him!_ What is _wrong_ with you? Do you hate your people, Lois? Is that it?"

By this time, a small crowd had been following the drama with decreasing interest.

"Oh, great," one guest griped. "Every time there's a party, the family members always have it out."

"Let's go grab some of that pulled pork before it's all gone," suggested another, and soon the disinterested crowd left the sordid tableau on their way to enjoy more barbeque from the wood-lined pit some yards away.

Lois began to recover, standing unsteadily to her feet and using the pillar for support. She ignored the throbbing in her lip, fixed her father a hard stare, and felt more and more defiant every time she tasted the tang of blood in her mouth.

"I don't hate anybody, but you do," she spat back at him. "I don't know what Mom ever _saw_ in you, but she's free of you, now. And as soon as I collect my gift from her, and my family, _we'll_ be free of you, too."

Silas' hearty laugh was filed with chilled venom. "Your _family? _I don't know how to break this to you, Kitten…Oh, wait, that's a lie. I _do _know how to break it to you."

Upon hearing about her loved ones, Lois' defiance started to waver "What are you saying?"

Silas watched her reactions with dark elation. "That worthless slave and your whole miserable family are now worm food in the woods by now."

Lois stopped moving and her blood began to cool. She felt as though she were going into shock. "You...you _killed_ them?" she whispered, trying not to believe, her breath and her fight just about stolen from her.

"Yes," he declared exultantly, then stopped ranting to explain matter-of-factly, "Didn't you get my letter? The whole "take a _stab_ to _bury_ the hatchet, to _hang_ all of this foolishness" thing?"

Lois struck a thoughtful pose and mused, "Yeah. Y'know, I thought that part _was_ a bit strange."

"Yes, well, anyway, I _did_ kill them, and as soon as I take back that treasure from you, you're going to stay here, even if I have to chain you up in the cellar. You can have it back when you marry a good, rich, decent, slave-holding, white man."

"What is this thing with cellars?" she mused again prior to the tragic knowledge hitting her harder than Silas ever could. "But…my family's dead?"

Tearfully, she bowed her head in abject despair. She couldn't believe that he had finally won, at last. "Then you've killed me too, Daddy. I'm dead right along with them. But you can't keep me under lock and key forever. I'll be with my family again. You can believe that."

Silas held her in a cool gaze and asked, "Did you get this melodramatic bullshit from your mother, because you didn't get it from me, that's for _damn _sure."

Despondent, Lois could barely hear her father's callous words. Leaden thoughts of a life not lived with her husband, her children never having the chance to grow and experience their own lives as free men and women, never having the chance to chase their destinies, fall in and out of love, and raise families of their own and bless her with rambunctious grandchildren, ossified her heart.

Her spirit had been so thoroughly numbed in the short amount of time that transpired, that all she could hear, albeit barely, other than the dull crashing of bushes nearby, was the sound of something that she was sure wasn't possible only because it was so familiar.

Her ears caught it again. A cry, a call. Now it was even closer.

"Lois! Lois! Damn trees. I can hardly see through all this. Lois!"

She turned her head towards the woods, hating her rising expectations because of the fall that was sure to come, but she dared to call back as a final stand against the wishes of a narrow-minded world.

"Nate?" she called out timidly.

"Lois?" came the steadily approaching reply, as the sounds of movement grew louder. Then her beloved husband finally stumbled out into the open, covered in loose brambles.

"Lois, I'm still here, and the family's okay! And guess what? May's here, too!" he happily exclaimed.

The feelings that ran through Lois were primal, indescribable. The pall of tragedy that just shrouded her moment before, dissipated like fog in the sunshine, and she was freed from its weight.

"Oh, Nate! Thank God!" she cried as he ran from the bushes and held her in an iron embrace that she never wanted to be released from.

Enraged, Silas balled his hands into white, tight fists, and bellowed into the night, cursing and disbelieving the luck that this lowly slave possessed.

"Griffin!" he yelled, facing the couple with froth sputtering from his mouth. "I don't know how you got by Hunter, but you won't get past me. My party's going to have a surprise Mexican theme tonight. We're going to string up four piñatas!"

Spotting a knot of his guards talking by a picnic table, Silas immediately called out to them. When they arrived, he gleefully pointed out Nate to them.

"Men, look after this son of a bitch, won't you?" he asked them while they forcefully pried the husband and wife apart.

Silas looked pleased by the spectacle, the helplessness and the closing despair. With the sudden approaching sound of hoof beats and burdened wagon wheels he heard at this hour of the night, he was certain it was Hunter in his vaunted coach coming to make amends for losing his prey.

Indeed, he could see the _Hessian_ trundling its way up to the front gate, presumably coming from the heavily wooded trail Hunter found and parked in earlier, that turned out to roughly circumnavigate the vast, outer property.

'_Hmm, Hunter must really be feeling down about letting Nate get away,' _Silas thought as he looked at the driver in the coach's box seat, the distance making the figure indistinct. _'He's so hunched over, he looks practically short.' _

As the coach turned into the entrance and was driven up the path, Silas turned his attention back to his men.

"I want two men to join me in the woods, and bring your meanest, hungriest dogs," he ordered them. "Nate's kids are still out there."

"What are we gonna do?" asked one of his men eagerly.

Silas figured the unbalanced man knew the answer, but he was keen to play along to build up the couple's fear.

"We're going _hunting_," he answered with grim pleasure.

The last thing Silas expected to hear, however, was a girl's voice ringing out from off in the distance, boldly saying, "Sorry, Grandpa! You didn't ask, "_May_ I"!"

"What?"

Silas twirled around in surprise to see that the _Hessian _hadn't parked in front of the manor, as he assumed it did, but was instead sitting alone on the front lawn, several yards from the mansion.

Silas looked to the box seat for the welcoming presence of The Hunter, and saw the figure of May Griffin looking down from her chair, locking eyes on him with a stare of undisguised anger.

"Oh, I get it, now," he said, understanding the joke. "_May_ I", 'cause you're May."

"Yeah, a real knee-slapper when you gave me that name," May coolly replied.

"Well, I can always change it, if you don't like it. How about I call you, "Dead". How does that grab ya?"

The old man's attention was then quickly drawn to frantic movement behind her, as the leather tarp covering the coach's roof was thrown off by her two concealed brothers, to also staring at their grandfather rebelliously.

"What are you waiting for? Get outta here, now!" Nate screamed at them.

"Daddy! Daddy, don't hurt my babies!" Lois begged in a blind panic upon seeing her children, and especially her daughter, again. "I'll do whatever you want, just don't kill my babies, please!"

Silas gave an easy chuckle as he assessed the proceedings. "Well, they're hear to save you two, obviously, Pumpkin. I have to give them high marks for effort, though, and as soon as I drag them off of that coach, I'll give them to 'em…across their backs."

Partiers, who had been watching it all, nervously began taking family members or friends back to safer positions away from the standoff. They would probably feel foolish for overreacting, later at home, since they weren't too sure how three black children in a stagecoach was going to be much of a threat to armed guards.

A sentiment that Silas Pewterschmidt carried with him as he calmly stepped ahead of his guards to address the youngsters again.

"You do know that none of you are not going to leave here alive, right? I mean, this isn't even the _beginning_ of the nightmare I have in store for you or your parents," he said matter-of-factly. "And you, May? I don't know what hole you were hiding in all this time, but you were better off staying in it."

May listened to her grandfather's rants, but kept her eyes solely on the guards. The only thing she was listening for was the command for his men to advance on her and her brothers, which she knew was not long in coming. She only hoped that the reports she got from her siblings on their experiences with the _Hessian's_ features weren't just confused or conflicted hyperbole.

"Now, before these nice men come over and pull you off of that coach, is there anything you'd like to say, in parting?" Silas asked bemusedly. "It'll probably the last thing your folks will hear from you, after all."

May tightened her sweaty hands on the reins. Taking her cue from seeing how Dewey handled Vincent, she found that driving a coach was trickier, but could be done at slower speeds. Something she was going to have to abandon tonight.

With a grim smirk, May promised herself that if, by some miracle, they all made it back home, she'd pester her more horse-experienced father to teach her how to handle the horse and buggy properly.

"Yeah, I do," May spoke up audaciously. She knew she was in deep anyway. "Go throw a lemon party!"

Every guest and guard within earshot, and even the kids' parents, gave a collective _whoa_ upon hearing that, wondering what Silas' reaction would be.

They didn't have to wait long. "Pop a cap in their asses," he commanded in a low growl. "Lemon party that."

The moment that the armed men ran forward to take up firing positions, May snapped the reins with authority. The horses accelerated in a muscular surge, taking her by surprise as she fought for control and almost making her brothers almost fall from the roof.

"Toss it now!" Huey yelled over the din of hoof beats and rifle reports as he and Curtis struggled to keep their balance against their sister's half evasive-half undisciplined driving.

Curtis precariously reached down and grabbed hold of the ether tank, which was removed by group effort, and, while still coach surfing and exposed to rifle fire, heaved the container at the combatants a few yards back.

The guards stood their ground while they warily watched the tank bounce in the turf and finally roll to a stop just ahead of them, as guests decided to err on the side of caution, and scattered from the attack, clearing the front yard and heading for the safety of home or elsewhere.

While the coach's driver made the strangely suicidal decision to circle back around to their position, the guards, reloading as quickly as they could, ignored the tank, not noticing that its circumference was girded with a length of thin rope.

On the side of the tank that the armed guards couldn't see, a lit grenade was tied to the rope, spitting and smoking quietly.

When the explosion took them down like a lion, it simply became a toss-up to see which men were laid low by tank shrapnel, and which ones were merely comatose from the compressed, concentrated blast of freed ether.

By the time May slowly brought the _Hessian_ back to where they had been previously, she could just make out the bodies lying in the grass as the ether and gunpowder smoke cleared the scene.

Silas couldn't tell if he felt more embarrassed by the defeat of his men in such short order, the fact that ex-slave children did the deed, or the fact that their parents witnessed it all with a thankful pride that supplanted his best efforts to break them with fear.

All of which was supplanted in its own way when Silas' jaw was rattled from the powerful sucker punch delivered by Nate while he was distracted by the _Hessian_ coming to a stop closer to the mansion.

Lois was momentarily shocked at her husband's action, but she gently reached down to where Silas was lying on the ground. From Silas' position, he could see his daughter obviously about to help him to his feet.

She gathered up the tiny jewelry chest and the satchel stuffed with money that Silas fell in front of, and then ran hell-bent for leather across the yard with her husband towards the waiting coach.

May's mood brightened when she saw her parents making their way to the coach, and was more than happy to give the reins to her father while she reconnected with her mother when they were safely away, but when she saw more guards from the backyard scramble to the front while a recovering Silas barked orders to shoot to kill, she realized how truly complicated this rescue would end up being.

"Cover them!" May, herself ordered to her brothers as she gripped the reins and prepared to drive the coach as fast as she could from the manor.

Curtis kneeled by the small box of grenades, grabbed a lit handful, and liberally tossed them at riflemen, who dove for cover, or were bloodily blown against the house.

Huey grabbed the crank handle of the retracted Puckle Gun at the same time he stomped on a trigger plate set in the roof with all of his weight. The weapon's telescoping stalk extended from the roof, carrying the proto-Gattling Gun and Huey high over the coach.

Although being that high, even with sufficient cover from Curtis, was still dangerous if a courageous gunman ever managed to ignore grenades long enough to get a lucky shot through, Huey didn't mind one iota as he laughed with giddy glee and simply hung on to the spinning crank as it caused the machine gun to discharge round after lethal round in the general direction of Silas and his men.

With guards either badly wounded or fleeing, Nate and Lois frantically made it to the coach, but their elated mood turned sour when they tried to open the passenger doors and found them to be locked. Nate fumed inside. The Hunter obviously locked them when he parked in the forest.

"May!" Nate called out. "The doors are locked down here. Are the keys up there with you?"

May looked around the box seat but could see nothing resembling a key.

"I don't see any keys here," she yelled back down. "You and Mom come around to the other side of the coach where it's safer."

Silas braved the waning combat to see his men decimated by the battle-coach while his traitorous daughter and hated son-in-law were talking to their daughter. If they were distracted, then an opportunity presented itself.

He stealthily reached down to pick up the pistol of a fallen guard and quietly drew a bead on the back of Nate's skull.

Watching for more attackers from his high vantage point, Curtis spotted Silas try to surreptitiously snipe his parents down below. The Puckle was out of ammo, and he, too was near depleted of munitions, down to only down to one grenade left.

Lighting it quickly and yelling from on high, "Look out!" Curtis threw the bomb with panicky over-enthusiasm. It sailed far over Silas's head, ricocheted off the mansion's façade in an arc, and landed in the still hot barbeque pit off to the side.

Hearing Curtis report that he was out of grenades, Silas stood fully and, with a smile, took another bead on a Nate who knew he was being targeted and stood in front of his wife to shield her.

"Good-bye, you piece of-" Silas managed to say before an explosion made him jump in fright.

The grenade detonated, obliterating the wooden walls of the pit and scattering embers and glowing charcoal in all directions like tracer rounds.

Several flaming logs that made up the pit's wall flew into dangerous trajectories towards the mansion, ultimately smashing through the house's French front windows, igniting carpets and setting delicate drapes and tapestries ablaze.

"My mansion! My mansion!" Silas screamed in horror and loss, then as aside, mentioned, "My dead wife, too, but my _mansion!_"

Too frightened to enter, but too conceited to think that others would judge him cowardly for fleeing, Silas' sense of self-preservation won out, and he ended up watching helplessly from a safe distance as his precious mansion, his departed wife, and every material thing he deeply cherished in this world become naught but raw fuel, hungrily consumed by the living flames that roared like a beast as the house groaned in structural failure. By then, all of the guests had long since left.

Although he didn't think a jot for the slaves who might have been caught inside the burgeoning inferno, at least in a non-fiscal sense, Silas, and indeed, everyone by the Hessian, turned to hear noises coming from off in the distance of Silas' land.

Thundering from the rear of the mansion and taking the main road out and away from the fire, a frantic, yet happy, convoy of horses and horse-drawn carts carrying every house slave, field hand and their families, rode away from the plantation and into the safety of night.

To Silas, this was the final indignity. He found himself running a short distance after them, yelling, "Get back here, you ingrates! I gave you everything you could possibly want! Pain, cruelty, and suffering! You just can't get that anywhere!"

But the escapees paid no heed, and they soon disappeared in the dust and moonlight, leaving Silas to stand outside his family mansion, listening to it burn from behind him as he stared down the road, blankly.

Standing by the coach, Lois couldn't help but pity Silas as he watched his world crumble just as his home was doing. As _her_ home was doing. But she had moved on a long time ago, and she had her home in Quahog to look forward to.

Maybe someday, she thought, Silas might become a good enough man to understand what it meant to look forward to something.

"It's over, Daddy," Lois told him quietly. "You lost everything. Mom, the house...and now, me."

She wrapped her slender arm around Nate affectionately and gratefully said to him, "Come on, baby. We're going home."

With a silent rage that rivaled the devouring flames, Silas quietly turned to face the family that he had moved himself to hate for two years, and would now probably despise for the rest of his life.

"You're a fool, Lois," he said to her, his voice sounding older, harder and hollow, like a bitter phantom. "I had you brought up to know your place in this world. Behind a man. But you were always so damned pig-headed."

Then he turned his attention to Nate. "And speaking of pigs, if you're going to drag my stupid daughter into the mud with the rest of your kind, then I say you're welcome to her. You both deserve each other."

Nate held Lois close to his side while their children watched over them protectively from their places on the _Hessian,_ as a hot wind blew from the dying manor.

"You're right, Mr. Pewterschmidt," Nathaniel Griffin said to him. "We _do _deserve each other, and if a family like ours means living in the mud, then it's better than your kind of clean any day."

Silas said nothing in response to that. He simply looked past them to the symbol of his worldly power collapsing under its own weight and fiery destruction.

His embarrassment of a family didn't understand. The young and the idealistic never did. Power was all, and power _is_ all.

He knew the reporters of the scandal sheets would soon take their pint of blood from him, and rip his already threadbare reputation into scraps on the floor of the social elite. He would bare them all with profound dignity while he licked his wounds, ultimately rebuilt his fortunes, and quietly put those reporters to death.

He could wait.

Lois craned her head up and happily addressed her children. "Alright, everybody, let's get back home. May, do we need-"

May stiffened as though thunderstruck. In all of the commotion she had completely forgotten about him.

"Wait! We can't leave yet!" she announced, as she hopped off of the box seat, landing hard on the ground, in a crouch. "We have to wait for Dewey!" She then ran heedlessly down the mansion's stone path and out of the front gate, heading back towards the wooded perimeter of the estate.

A collective pause settled over everyone, save a brooding Silas, and then Lois and Nate, deeply perplexed, asked each other in unison, "Who's Dewey?"


	20. Chapter 19

Chapter _Nineteen-_

The warm winds from the mansion's fire swayed the canopies of the trees that formed the border between the clearing May returned to and the wilderness Dewey chased Hunter into.

The flames had yet to touch the forest and consume them, so it was still dark and felt like walking through a natural arena, although the scent of charred architecture was pervasive enough.

Following the tracks the _Hessian_ made to and from the site, May stood in the center of the grassy area, calling out Dewey's name, and trying to remember where in the foliage he and the bounty man plunged into.

All too cognizant that she had little time to stay, she took a chance and headed in a straight line from her position in the center, reaching a portion of the thick, surrounding bushes, saplings and medium sized trees that delineated the area.

May called into the woods for Dewey once more, and prepared to gingerly step through, when fast, rough hands reached out and seized her arms and shoulders, pushing and forcing her back.

Startled, May backed up while the grappler followed her out of the forest, tall, strong and smelling of tobacco, gunpowder and whiskey.

The height difference gave May a sharp disadvantage as she tried to sidestep and pull away. Her opponent's reach provided him with more than enough leverage to keep her locked in his grasp, like a preying mantis, while his longer legs easily kept him in pace with May's evasive twists and jerks. To an observer, they resembled a couple engaged in a violent, sweeping tango.

In the midst of the "dance", May's hand holding the torch went up to the opponent's head and she almost caught a glimpse of her attacker. Inspired, by that, she feigned pulling that arm down, fighting against the attacker's attempt to keep her arm up.

When she figured enough time was spent pulling down, she suddenly lunged up with the torch arm, ramming the flaming head into the combatant's face.

With a cry of pain and surprise, the fighter let go of her to protect the face, and quickly backed off. It was then that May could see who it was that had grabbed her.

Hatless and covered in scratches from brambles, along with a few of the brambles themselves, Hunter hunched down in fatigue, holding himself up by his knees as his face smarted from the surface scorching.

May had backed away, as well, warily watching him and keeping the torch held out in front of her defensively. With the bounty hunter gradually stalking her while he caught his breath, and his prey retreating with his every step, the two slowly circled each other in the dark clearing.

"So, you're dat fat slave's little girl, huh?" wheezed Hunter. "Forgive me for being so winded, but I've been playin' tag with that fella you rode in with earlier."

"And you're The Hunter," May answered back. "I'm sorry I didn't have time to introduce myself after I got your hand earlier."

Hunter gave a predatory smile. "Don worry none, little girl. We'll settle up soon. But despite you trying to burn my face off, I'm much obliged to you for havin' that torch. I was lost for a while, back there, until I saw it."

Reminded, May asked sternly, "Where's Dewey?"

"Who the hell's dat, girl?"

"Deuteronomy. Where is he? He went after you a little while ago."

Hunter's eyes went wide with understanding. "_Dat's_ who been chasin' me? My old slave boy?" he chuckled. "I thought it was some nut who escaped from a hospital, or some such thing. Guess you turned him against me, too, eh, cher? Well, the love a good woman, I suppose. Well, after I'm done with you, I'll give him his send-off, too."

May sighed in relief. Dewey was still alive somewhere.

Hunter raised his nose nonchalantly. "I smell smoke," he said for conversation's sake. "I guess Old Man Pewterschmidt's barbeque got outta hand, eh, cher?"

"Maybe," May said, getting more worried the longer she watched him. He was obviously unarmed, but certainly strong enough to kill if he could get a hold of her again.

But why was he just talking to her? To stall? If a good wind blew the fire into the woods, it would be hellish to behold. Was that his plan? To keep her here until they all went up in flames? May looked at him with even more suspicion. He didn't look the suicide type.

"Dewey's told me about how you tricked him into helping you catch our people," she continued, deciding that it would be best to _keep_ him talking, to better gauge what he would do next.

Hunter assumed a shocked expression as he rounded the clearing with her. "Did he now? I'm much too modest to boast, myself. To tell the truth, though, I thought that I might have the chance to see him hung one day."

"Beat ya to it," May quipped salaciously. "Hopefully, by tonight, though, the only thing you'll catch is a bullet in the head."

Hunter grinned in the dark again. "Aww, you give me way too much credit, child. So, you're the one who slipped away from me, huh? Not bad, cher. Not bad. I almost got into a heap of trouble 'cause of you."

"You're not sitting too pretty right now, from where I'm standing, if try to grab me again," May explained with shaky defiance.

Hunter chuckled warmly at that. "Mmm, you got your momma's sauce, I garontee, but I _will_ be standing, when all's said and done. And as for your little playmate, I'll make sure he's good and swingin' before long."

May gave him a naughty grin and said, "_Un_…necessary!"

"Now just cut that out!" he said irritably.

He stopped walking all of the sudden and gave her an appraising look. "I gotta admit, though, you're a lot cleverer than I what I give your people credit for."

May risked a sarcastic bow and flippantly said, "Thanks. That's mighty white of you."

"Naturally!"

The Hunter twisted in an explosion of motion, causing May to fearfully jump further back to avoid his rush, but it was for naught.

When she landed, she looked to see that Hunter hadn't closed the distance between them, as she feared, but actually leaped in another direction. Towards the tracks left by his coach.

May pointed her torch quickly into the direction where Hunter was frantically crawling, wondering what on Earth was he doing. When she saw the object glittering reflectively in the grass, the answer hit her like a physical blow.

All the talking and stalking had a purpose after all. The same purpose she helped him with when she flashed her torch around in the last place they were all together. The place where he lost his gun, she used it, herself, and then discarded, in the same place.

As he moved her around, like a world-class chess player, pretending to follow her, she must have passed by the gun, illuminating it by torchlight, and he surreptitiously saw it.

Chagrined, May saw Hunter pounce on his gun like a cat and knew she barely had time to act.

She slapped her thigh to find and use her knife, but then thought against it. She had the aid of the light of the full moon to guide her to her target last time. Plus, she didn't care where the blade would strike when she threw it, as long as it hurt and stopped him from shooting.

In the flicker of the torch, it was incredibly difficult to draw a bead on Hunter, and she couldn't risk missing her throw and losing a critical weapon in this fight.

Then she realized that it wasn't her _only_ weapon.

Hunter gathered himself into a kneeling stance just as May reached behind her and pulled out her manuscript. She knew it would be risky using the torch to read by, since Hunter could use the same light to target her, but if she could get a passage read before he took aim…

Hunter almost laughed in pity when he saw her preparing to read, and centered himself for a tight, disabling shot to strike her in the body, when a horrific pain blossomed in the depths of his mind, like a terrifying nightmare given painful, physical form.

He clutched the sides of his head in agony, yet had enough strength of mind not to drop the pistol, as May read paragraph after pretentiously bad paragraph in a clear voice, focusing and projecting its pain like a caustic hex.

"_What…What is dat!" _he screamed at her, in torment and in fury.

Victorious, May, with book in hand and a torch held in the other, impossibly look every bit the enigmatic voodoo witch of the dark woods that populated the tales of his childhood.

"The power of a Mary Sue, motherfucker!" May exclaimed. Then, to Hunter's horror, she continued to read another page, and he was certain that her mission was nothing short of walking out of these woods alive and the victor.

Hunter searched through the whirlwind of pain in his head to desperately find another source of strength to fight on with.

_Then he found it. _His abhorrence for her people, his pride as a killer of men, the unfathomable shame he would feel for eternity should he fall to a slip of a slave girl with a badly written book.

With shaky legs, teary eyes and a heart brimming with hatred, he locked onto her location, and with a primal yell that jolted May out of her reading, Hunter launched himself at her with a berserker's charge.

May tried to sidestep the rush, and in a split second, considered just running from him, but he homed in on her like a missile, crashing and lifting her up with a satisfying collision that slammed her into the sod, knocking the wind from her body, and the torch and manuscript from her hands.

With that, Hunter was spent, and could do no more than roll over and recover his strength in the cool grass.

May lie on her stomach, doubled over from the fall. With effort, she lifted her head gradually to the gentle sound and scent of paper crackling and burning, and became overwhelmed with dismay and grief.

"No…" she protested weakly. She never expected this.

The errant torch had landed on the manuscript a fair distance away, and by the time May saw it, her first written story, her own personal, albeit amateurish, work, was already transforming in the heart of its own pyre into a curling pile of blackened, glowing ash, carried away on the winds of a column of hot air into the night.

Finally catching her breath, May bowed her head in fatigue and in mourning. But her bereavement was cut short by a pair of hands clutching her by the ankles and viciously dragging her away from the safety of the torch.

Terrified, May clawed and clutched at the sod, trying to pull and squirm from Hunter, but he had too good a hold on her, this time around.

Getting his questing hands under her skirt, her grabbed her by her knees and managed to lift and twist her before slamming her back to the ground. Hard.

The pain to her lower back and buttocks was enough to stun her, giving the man time to crawl, spread eagle, over her prone body to pin her down with his weight.

Unable to lift him away, Hunter finished crawling high enough to straddle May's midsection with shocking speed.

_Oh my, God!' _she fearfully screamed in her mind as his hands held her immobile by her shoulders. _'Is he going to rape me?' _

When those same hands flew to her throat instead, she actually gave a pained smile, thinking, as she tried to fight him off, _'Whew! He just wants to kill me! Thank God!'_

May fought the creeping terror that would rob her of focus when the grip became more pressing and steely, she could hear her pulse thunder in her head, and her vision began to slowly cloud.

She stretched her hands up as far as her short arms could allow, grasping and clawing frantically at Hunter's face.

Hunter, for his part grew rapidly frustrated with this. He hoped to kill her off quickly before the fires reached the forest, but the teen proved surprising resilient. If he spent too much time on this, his former slave, or her family, may come this way, looking for her, and may effect a rescue.

That thought was confirmed when May began to buck and knee him painfully in the back. That was the last straw for him.

He looked around to where he dropped his gun. It rested close by where he dragged her, so he transferred his choking to one hand while he quickly reached for the weapon.

Putting all of his throttling efforts to just one hand weakened the throttling noticeably to May and she switched tactics, bringing her hands down to grab her wrist and forearm to dislodge its murderous hold.

She stopped immediately when he pointed the cool barrel of his pistol down to her forehead.

Both combatants were breathing hard, and he looked down on her with something akin to faint admiration. No woman ever gave him that much of a fight for so long a time before he killed her.

That meant something in his twisted way of looking at things, so he let up his choke to that of a tight hold.

"You got _gumption _in you, girl," he said with exertion." If your folks get away, they just get away. I'm just too tired to go after them. But you cut me and helped them escape, so you're gonna have to die tonight, cher. But I'll give you a choice. You get to choose the speed."

May sadly knew what he meant by that. If she continued to struggle, her last thoughts would be blasted into the turf. If she relinquished the fight, he'll choke her to death and have the fires destroy the evidence afterwards.

Fearing the pain and ignominious mess of a headshot, May opted for the relatively painless dignity of asphyxiation. With sad reluctance, she lowered her hands to her sides, and Hunter proceeded to press down and increase pressure to his one hand's killing embrace.

The struggling, although not stopped, was significantly quelled to an slow, uncomfortable squirm under Hunter's body, and a satisfied sneer grew when May's eyes began to cross behind her spectacles, her breathing degenerated into a raspy squeak, and she clutched and tore handfuls of grass in protracted, increasing discomfort.

The sound of moving plant growth behind Hunter alerted him, and he gave a mirthless smirk in response.

"May?" Dewey called out, stepping out of the heavy foliage in his stolen, ragged robes and looking like a sword-wielding hermit. "I thought I heard something, Vincent. C'mon."

"Hey, boy!" he crowed as Dewey emerged from the undergrowth. "How's it goin'?"

Dewey turned his head to the source of the sound, but couldn't make it out from the faint glow of the distant torch, however, the voice was a voice that long taunted him in his guilt-stoked nightmares.

"Hunter?" he called out.

"How'd you guess?"

They both turned their heads to the sound of Vincent plodding through brush across the clearing towards them.

"I don't see May anywhere, but I thought I heard her around here," the horse said in the dim torchlight. Then he caught sight of the indistinct knot of people on the ground. "Who's that?"

"Be careful, Vince," Dewey warned. "That's my old owner, Capt. Hunter."

Curious, Vincent walked over to the torch and lifted it up with his mouth, illuminating the clearing.

From Dewey's point of view, he could only just make out Hunter from behind. Now that the clearing was better lit, he could clearly see the man hunched over a prone and barely conscious May, and he imploded in horror at the sight.

"_May! No! Get off of her!_" he screamed as he shifted weight on his feet to spring out at Hunter from the rear.

Hunter spared a moment to take the gun from May's head and held it up for Dewey to see. As expected, Dewey stopped cold.

"Careful, now, boy," Hunter warned. "I haven't shot anyone in a while, now, and I don't think you want me to start with her."

Dewey could hear May's labored breathing, and it was killing him alongside her. He wanted to throw Hunter off, wanted to tear his heart out with his hands alone. His own heart screamed at him to save her, but the threat to kill her more quickly bound him to where he stood with invisible chains stronger than he ever wore.

"Wait! Please, stop hurtin' her! Why are you _doin' _this?" he asked between clenched teeth, the only thing free to move from him being his tears.

Hunter grunted to put more pressure around her throat, and then said to him, "That's a damn good question. Remember when I left you that note back in Quahog? I expected you to be smart enough to see that letter for the easy out it was and go runnin' back home to your mammy. Not to get it in your head to conspire against me and help Ms. Thing, here, track me down. She's down here because of you."

"No! You tricked me into helping you catch my own people. I wanted to help her get her family back from you and make amends for what I did," Dewey spat back. "I should have killed you in your sleep a long time ago!"

From her position on the ground, May could just see past Hunter with her spotty vision, and saw Dewey standing helpless to act. The regret in his eyes was radiant of every thing he did to save his mother, and in not being more trustworthy to May.

She wanted to support him, tell him how wrong Hunter was. She wished she could speak a kind word to him, soothe and shield him of the agony seeing her like this was doing to him, but nothing came forth, her windpipe was burdened enough as it was.

"You were my _tool_, boy," Hunter explained with ironic amicability. "I couldn't have asked for a better hound. Besides, you think I cared about you wantin' to be an actor or some such nonsense? You're just lucky when I caught you tryin' to read dem scripts, you gave me the idea to use you as a distraction to steal money from the Army payroll whenever you were foolin' around on stage. Damn shame that the Army caught me, but nobody was gonna watch some poor slave spouting Shakespeare on a stage somewhere. People got better things to do with their time, and what I wanted to do was make my fortune, either by you or through you."

If Dewey understood the depths of his exploitation from that confession, he didn't care. His personal hell wasn't his ruined childhood or his life of servitude. It was impotently watching the love of his young life having _her_ life slowly snuffed out in front of his pleading eyes.

He only wanted the huntsman to stop hurting her. Everything else was nothing. He would have agreed to anything, returned to a life as Hunter's slave, if the man asked. But the bounty man saw no need; he was quite content with just punishing Dewey by relentlessly continuing to cut off her air at a pace that almost seemed pleasurable.

"Okay, so you used me! I don't care! You _won!_ Just let May go, _please_," the teenager begged with a cracked voice, going mad with grief and seeing no other earthly options open to saving her except forfeiting his pride, which meant less than nothing to him now. "I promise I won't get in your way again, I swear. I'll disappear, if you want, and you'll never see me again. _Please!_"

May's heart thumped in pity for Dewey as a tear rolled down her cheek. She was so heartbroken to see him completely bowed before Hunter.

At last, she could see what kind of evil Dewey had served for so long. A brazen, scheming evil that lived to simply make others suffer while he benefited from that suffering. Man or woman, red, black or white, for the bloodiest of money, Captain Hunter was walking scum.

Although she took comfort in her success in finally helping to free her family, May wished that she and Dewey could defeat, or even kill Hunter this night, for what would stop him from continuing to profit from the desperate escapees who ran foul of him? Perhaps then, she thought, Dewey could finally be free of the guilt that infected him so long ago. To be truly free in soul, as well as body.

It was then that she was kissed by inspiration, and her currently fuzzy mind faintly recalled the argument she had had with her inner voice and what "she" had said.

'_May, we don't always get to choose the battles we fight, but we can choose what's worth fighting for. He chose his mother, and you chose your family. Who knows what the two of you may chose _next_ time…' _

May finally understood what Ivy meant and closed her eyes in resignation. She knew that she was doomed. She had lost her fight with Hunter and knew there was no way Dewey could save her with the bounty hunter holding a loaded gun to her head and listening to and for every sound that her friend would make.

But with what little time she had left, a choice could still be made…_For Dewey_.

A choice to save someone that she realized she may have loved unto death, and help that someone stop an evil that preyed on too many souls in his lifetime, including, she sadly acknowledged, Dewey's.

She just wished she knew of a way to communicate that choice to him before it was too late.

Hunter angled his head up slightly to address him without looking away from May. "Den, you're tellin' me dat you're sorry, den?"

"Yes! Yes! I'm sorry!" Dewey cried. "Anythin' to save her! I'll say anythin' you want, I swear! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please!"

"I thought as much," Hunter sneered in disgust. "You may be black on the outside, but you're as yella as they come. Your mammy's only one woman, but you sacrificed so many instead of doing the honorable thing of, at least, _trying_ to finish me off. Hell, boy, she wasn't even in trouble. You're weak, and that's why I used you. Dis girl's got more spine than you, and you're gonna watch me break it before I put you outta your misery."

May focused her fading awareness to her leg and gently bent it. That side of her skirt fell away from the leg, uncovering it almost to the hip and exposing the leather-bound knife sheath.

Carefully reaching around, so as not to touch Hunter's thigh, she gave the sheath's flap a weak tug, and the knife began to slide gradually from its holder.

Before it could fall out and hit the back of her attacker's calf, however, May stretched her fingers out and caught it by the top of its hilt. So focused was Hunter on his gloating at Dewey, that he didn't notice.

"And as for you killin' me in my sleep," Hunter challenged. "It's obvious you never killed a thing in your life, boy. Except maybe this girl here, by you standin' there like a stump. So, here's my final lesson to you. Killin' somebody's like killin' a cockroach. You never wanna hesitate."

Dewey could see some movement below Hunter and sadly thought it was simply May still fighting against the inevitable, when he saw her arm lazily swing out, very loosely holding the knife he gave her.

Dewey kept as still as death while he watched May silently lift the knife. He would do nothing to give away the element of surprise he could elatedly see, as her hand twisted the knife and grasped it in the orientation of a brutal stab.

She was going to bury the blade in Hunter's side, up to the hilt, and finally escape!

Despite her prone position on the soft grass, May and Dewey's eyes saw each other sincerely. Dewey wondered why she was taking so long to gut Hunter, when his wonder turned into the gravest concern.

May's unfocused eyes gave a faraway look past Dewey, into the night sky, as the once bright corridor of her perception narrowed into a gray, quiet fog.

With her last quantity of strength, she tossed the knife in a low arc that stabbed itself blade down into the earth, quietly, by his feet. Then May mercifully stopped fighting and went limp.

Without a second's hesitation, Dewey pulled up the knife, sighted the target with a practiced eye, and threw the blade singing through the air.

The blade's brutal momentum caused its razor-sharp length to sink deeply into the back of Hunter's neck, cleanly severing his spinal column and swiftly sending him into The Great Beyond with a shocked and haunted look.

"Good to know, you piece of shit," Dewey growled as a send-off.

With a spasm, the already-dead Hunter collapsed onto May's body as Dewey and Vincent ran to her.

After throwing him off, Dewey fell to his knees and anxiously leaned his face close to her slack mouth, hoping against hope to feel a puff of breath. A frightful length of seconds passed, but when he finally heard a soft groan come from May, Dewey gratefully bowed his head gently to her gradually rising chest.

Softly holding her hand, Dewey firmly tapped the back of it to delicately rouse her, while Vincent placed the torch on the ground and gave her kindly nudges with his muzzle. Slowly, May's limbs started to move, and bit-by-bit, she steadily floated out of her unconsciousness.

Dewey couldn't fathom the strength of will she possessed to hold her own against the dead ex-Army captain, as he held her gently, rocking back and forth and thanking God for keeping her here with him.

"Dewey? I'm sorry," May croaked in a whisper, shocking Dewey further with her ability to speak so soon after her ordeal. Such strength…

"Don't talk, cher," he bade her. The last thing Dewey would have figured on would be for May to be the one to apologize after all that happened.

May pressed on, regardless. "I lied to you earlier. When you told me about you and The Hunter, I was so mad at you that I thought I knew what to do if the same thing happened to me. I guess I was lying to myself when I said that. The truth was…that you were right. I probably would've done the same thing, too." Her tired face was chagrined and lined with regret.

Dewey had long since dismissed their past arguments and found it folly to even give them remembrance. Life was for the forward-thinkers, but he had to ask one thing incredulously...

"That's not important anymore, cher, but you have to tell me…you had the knife in your hand. You could have just stabbed him when he was talkin' to me. Why did you throw it to me, instead?"

Smiling weakly, May said to him, "Because you needed it more."

Dewey sat completely thunderstruck. The shameful years of service he had to endure under Captain Hunter and the heart-aching culpability that branded him a race traitor was banished from him by her sacrifice.

With such a burden removed from his heart, he felt tired yet light. With the swift death of that hated man by Dewey's own hand, the young man smiled through his grateful tears.

"Thank you, May. Thank you," Deuteronomy said to her, reverently, as he rested his head upon hers.

The treetops danced more strongly now above the clearing and the leaves sang in the warm breeze. May looked up to see the night sky ringed by the surrounding trees glow golden from the direction of where the Pewterschmidt mansion once stood.

Dewey helped her to her feet and held her up while he oriented the two of them towards the path leading out of the forest.

As Vincent brought up the rear, May stopped the procession.

"What's wrong, cher?" Dewey asked, attentive to any injury he might have missed, but May gave him a placating smile.

"Something I have to do before we go."

May untangled herself from Dewey's supporting arm and then walked with a slightly wavering gait back to the abandoned torch.

After she picked it up, she walked unsteadily to the corpse that dared to steal her family from her. She kneeled down to draw the knife from its red resting place, wiped it clean against the grass, and stood over the body.

With no words needing to be said, May tossed the torch on the dead man, and watched in silence as the flames took hold of the clothing and consumed the man once known in life as Captain Theodore Hunter.

Returning back to her friends, she told them, "Now, we can go."

Emerging from the clearing and not stopping until they were a good distance from the coming forest fire, the trio rested across the road that led past the fiery ruins of Pewterschmidt Manor.

"Are you well enough to walk back to your folks?" Vincent asked May. "They must be worried to death that you haven't shown up yet."

Unbeknownst to those concerned, however, the Griffins stood before the great, burning house, in a line, side-by-side, holding hands, and swaying to the song, _Kumbaya._

"Oh, I'll be fine," May told him. "Plus, they'll finally get a chance to meet the two of you."

Dewey and Vincent gave May a comforting yet sober look.

"What?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"Me and Ol' Horse Meat aren't gonna go back with you, May," Dewey said quietly.

"What? Why?"

He took a deep breath, saying the words he practiced in his head while he was looking for Hunter in the forest.

"I told myself that if we ever got The Hunter, I would have to atone for the things I've done for him."

That line of thinking did make sense considering his guilt would drive him to that decision, May figured, but it felt too reckless, too extreme.

"But you don't have to do that, Dewey," May reasoned, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "You killed him already, so you don't have to do any more. You can be the actor you always wanted to be. Come back with me to Quahog."

A wistful smile floated on Dewey's lips. "I really wish I could do that, but I can't, cher. I guess I'll have to use what actin' I know to get by. Besides it was you who inspired me the most to do this. You were right. Our people deserve so much more than what I did to them. Don't you take any of that back."

May considered that he was probably doing the right thing, but all she kept seeing in her mind were the perils he'd have to face almost constantly. More so, perhaps than the amount normally faced by her people on a daily basis.

"But, Dewey, it's too dangerous," she pleaded. "You don't have to do this. It's okay." She didn't care how suddenly selfish she might have looked to him, she wanted Dewey the friend and lover, not Dewey the martyr.

Dewey gave May a look she had never seen before, a look of complete serenity and contentment regarding his decision. "You're right, cher. For the first time in a long time, it's okay. I'm at peace with myself, now, but I have to set all I did right, for them. When your folks were in trouble, you saw what you had to do, so clearly, and now, so do I."

Choices. Her journey had been paved with choices she never thought she'd make, and they each made their choice for each other as Ivy had predicted, cementing their bond. Now, she found that she no right to contest with the new choice he had made.

"All right, Dewey," she relented bittersweetly. "I won't try to change your mind."

"Thanks, cher," he said. "And if your momma ever gets a chance to make that clam chowder and cornbread, could you save a bowl for me?"

"Gladly, but could you do _me_ a favor?" May asked, looking crestfallen and insecure when she pictured the high adventure and possible girls he would meet. "Just don't forget me. No matter where you go, or who you might be with, just remember what we went through together, okay?"

Dewey held a startled May by her arms and looked into the depths of her eyes with a solemn gaze.

"Hey, girl," he told her. "We stared down _death_ together. Kicked evil in the _ass_ together. You're _my_ girl, and no matter where I go, you'll _always_ be my girl, May Griffin."

The reality of his sincerity made May's legs weak, and she was grateful that he was holding her. She couldn't believe that she finally found a love of her own, and even though he would leave her soon for his own destiny, he proved to her time and again that he was the one, the _only_ one, worthy of her heart.

Looking up to him with that heart pounding, she found herself asking him, "You really…_love_ me, don't you?"

"I do, cher," Dewey whispered to her. "All 3/5ths of you."

She could hold back no longer, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him fully. Dewey clutched her in his strong embrace, pressing his lips hungrily against hers, as the forest across the road finally ignited from the flames of the mansion next door, and glowed warmly behind them.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter _Twenty-_

The humble, familiar environs of home made May crack another relieved smile. It felt so good to be back.

Coming down from her bedroom, she entered the family room as she always had, and was deeply pleased to see her beloved kin taking their ease in the home's hall, as _they_ always had.

Leaning contemplatively by the doorway, May watched her father Nate sit contentedly in his corner rocker once more, while mother Lois played with happy recollection on her harpsichord by the window.

Curtis still sat on his favorite spot on the family settee, relaxing and watching over Huey, while the tyke scrawled organic chemical notations on scrap pieces of paper on his comfortable Quaker-made rug.

"Ah, it's good to be back home!" Nate announced while he took a wide stretch in his chair. "That steamship took forever to get us back to Quahog."

From her padded seat by the harpsichord, Lois looked to the others and asked, "How do you all feel?"

Huey raised his head up from calculating, and said, "Strangely enough, I feel quite rested."

May stood up straight, rotating her bent arm experimentally at the shoulder. "I'm fine, just still a little stiff, that's all."

Curtis gave the most unexpectedly reply, as he solemnly looked into space and said, profoundly, "It was like staring at a never-ending void that dared to look back into me. I took a journey into the inner world and found...myself."

Nate slumped petulantly in his rocker. "Well, speak for yourselves," he groused. "I had an itch between my shoulder blades that was driving me crazy the whole way."

"I'm sorry, guys," Lois said. "We were supposed to travel together as a single woman and her four servants, to hide the fact that we're a family while we were still in the South, but the port authority had you all frozen in Carbonite for the trip back. I told them "steerage", not "storage.""

Nate leaned back and took on a sad, but patient air. "Well, we can all laugh about it, now, I guess, since we obviously can't sue anybody."

May stepped away from the threshold upon hearing her father's despondent tone, sensing her cue.

"Well, Dad, if means anything," she said as she approached him. "I thought about your DMV thing while I was in hibernation, and so, I came up with something for it when we got home."

Nate perked up and sat straight in his chair. "Really?" he asked excitedly. "What is it?"

May produced a sheet of paper. "I call it _The Declaration of Impedance_."

Clearing her throat, she read. "We hold these rules to be self-evident, that all men are berated equal, that they are kowtowed by their Berator with certain unassailable slights, that among these are strife, misery and the pursuit of nastiness."

Looking expectantly to her father for approval, May could see Nate beginning to tear up.

"Oh, May...That's the snarkiest, meanest, most depressing thing I ever heard. You are so talented, baby girl."

May fell on him with a hug. "Thanks, Daddy!" It wasn't The Great American Novel, but it was a start.

Lois was warmed by the affection displayed by her husband and daughter, but as a mother, a concern in her heart needed to be addressed, and now that everyone was safe and whole again, now was as good at time as any to say her peace.

"May, I want to say something to you. I know that you risked your life to find us after we were kidnapped, and I think what you did was the bravest thing I ever heard you do, but I don't ever want you to do that kind of thing again, okay? We don't want to lose you if something like that happened to us."

Standing to reply, May said to her, "But we survived, Mom. We're back home, safe and sound, because we stuck together."

Lois shook her head, bemusedly. "I know you must think I'm some old lady who worries a lot, but you'll see what I mean one day when you become a mother yourself."

"I understand what you're saying, Mom," said May. "I do, really. But you should have seen it the way I had. _I_ might've been safe, but I was going to lose all of _you_. I couldn't do that. There's nothing in the world worse than losing your family."

May said nothing else and gave her mother a tight hug. Mother and daughter communicated in that embrace every thing they hoped for each other, needed from each other, and shared with each other.

From the pain of those early, awkward years, to the stability of a free and loving home they enjoyed now, to the far horizon, when the mantle of motherhood would someday be passed to May, Lois squeezed her child and kissed her forehead, grateful that the days of being _her_ mother were not taken away from her.

Awash with the emotions of the moment, May stood cheerfully and walked, energized, towards the porch.

"Well, I'm gonna go for a walk to get the rest of this stiffness out of my muscles. I'll be back before dinner," she told her parents.

"Okay, Sweetheart," Lois said.

Curtis gave a shifty-eyed look, and then said, "Uh, I think I'll go for a walk, too. I just wanna see what I might have missed while we were gone."

Despite his bulk, he made his move quickly, so as not to be stopped by any parental requests. He got to the front door, opened it, and was about to leave, when May asked him teasingly, "You mean Cassy D'amico, don't you?"

Curtis fumed. It was the same old dig between the two of them, but this time, she foolish tipped her hand by confiding in him in the forests of Lynchtree. Now, he had her right where he wanted her.

"Oh, yeah? Hey, Mom, did you know that May got herself a little _boyfriend_ while she was out trying to rescue us?"

With that bombshell dropped, he left with a victorious grin, while Lois caught herself smiling from the news.

"Really, May? What's he like?"

May was prepared to make a ribald joke as a way to deflect too much scrutiny over the time she had with Dewey, particularly those more intimate moments, but she thought better of it. She would tell her in as much detail as she wanted, and when the time was right, she would confide in her mother everything.

Giving a wistful smile, May told her, "He was pretty cool, Mom." Then she turned happily and left the house.

When Nate heard the kids leave, he took on a lascivious look that was meant to be directed at Lois, but his eyesight was blurry and he aimed his look to the nearby shelving instead.

"Well, Lois, the kids are gone," said Nate. "Once this hibernation sickness passes, and my eyes get to seeing better, I'm gonna perpetuate some stereotypes celebratin' coming home, from the kitchen to the parlor and back again."

Hearing that, Huey gave an annoyed _ugh_, and then pressed on with his questionably noble work.

Lois skipped over to her husband and sat across his broad lap, giving him an affectionate hug.

"Mmm, you've got the kind of stereotypes I _like_ in a man," she purred before she drew his face close to hers and they kissed.

"Ugh," Huey muttered again.

Phineas Q. Ragg worked in his customarily hunched way over his wide, yet littered desk. His Ebenezer Scrooge-like demeanor kept everyone else at a comfortably far distance from him, and he liked it that way. Only the beauty of the late afternoon dare intrude upon him through the windows of his office.

That and May Griffin.

When he finally lifted his head from his paperwork, he noticed her standing in front of his desk, looking innocently down at the various forms and contracts scattered about, and promptly screeched.

"How do you keep coming in here?" he asked her in exasperation. "For almost two years, you found someway to darken my doorstep even more. Now, I'll see an end to it."

Turning to a funnel-ended brass tube mounted to the side of the desk, he yelled, "Boys!"

May knew who was coming, but didn't panic in the slightest. "Hello, Mr. Ragg. How are you?"

Ragg, satisfied that his goons were forthcoming, went back to work. "I'm busy. That's what I am, _Miss_ Griffin. You've just interrupted my concentration, and now a terrible price must be paid. Now, is there anything you wish to say before my boys run you through one of my presses?"

"Yes, actually there is. I just wanted to say thank you."

Ragg's writing hand slipped. He looked up at her, stunned.

"You were absolutely right about my book. It was a real stinker, and I shouldn't have tried to force it on you, or anyone else."

"Then why did you?" Ragg asked irritably.

With a sigh, May answered. "Because I was cocky, Mr. Ragg. I worked so _hard_ on it, and when people started telling me it was no good, I got so defensive and insecure that I didn't want to believe that I could improve."

Ragg leaned back in his high, padded chair in thought. "Not that I care, mind you, but _did_ you improve?"

"I recently went through some changes in my life, but I see now that I can't choose to ignore the hard work that I need to do to make myself a better writer. So, I apologize for wasting your time all of those years, and again, I just wanted to say thank you, Mr. Ragg."

Ragg, still looking at her, now saw her with his critical, appraising eye. "Humph. Took your sweet time to come up with that epiphany."

May dutifully took out her pad and pencil, scrawling the new word.

"E-P…" she asked.

"I-P-H-A-N-Y." Ragg finished in annoyance.

"Thanks."

"Anyway," he continued somewhat begrudgingly. "I wouldn't have minded taking you under my wing. To teach you _truly_ creative writing, the kind of writing that can warp perceptions, control the masses, and shape the outcomes of an entire country."

"Well, I certainly appreciate that," May said, being careful to be as diplomatic as possible. "But I'm not about propaganda or yellow journalism, Mr. Ragg. I just want to be the best writer I can be, so I can entertain people with what I can do."

Ragg shrugged disappointedly. "Eh, just as well. You're black. What would it look like if people knew I was mentoring you? I'd be laughed out of this town."

The office door opened briskly and the Booker Brothers stepped in like twin titans. One grabbed May by the back of her low collared dress and easily lifted her high in the air to hang helplessly.

"You want us to turn her into a _dead letter_, boss?" the other brother asked Ragg while he cracked his knuckles in anticipation of brutal mayhem.

"Yeah," the one holding her up agreed. "We can bid her a _font_ farewell."

Ragg resumed his brooding, hunched posture as he actually stopped to think on what transpired between May and himself.

He couldn't stand her, that was no secret, but something in him had to respect the burgeoning wordsmith in her. That even lowly May Griffin understood the power of the written word, and that had to count for something in his book.

With a dismissive wave, he ordered his Bookends, "Throw her the hell out."

May gave crotchety Mr. Ragg a kindly smile while his thugs reluctantly carried her away.

She had time to say, "Have a nice day, Mr. Ragg!" before she

was hauled out of the office.

May looked up into the softly picturesque Rhode Island sky from the street were she landed and rolled on her back, breathed in the distant, adventurous sea air, and thought.

Her apology to Ragg was, of course, risky, but sincere enough, and she really did want to smooth things out between the two of them after she returned, but she knew that the gesture itself was as much for her benefit as for his, a way for her to make peace with her old self.

However, she didn't expect him to have such a radical change of heart, ending in having her just thrown out, as usual, but that's what happened sometimes when one simply did the right thing, she figured. In this case, facing down her inner demons by doing right by an outer one.

She closed her eyes and thought back to the last time she was lying in front of Ragg's building, having her dog-eared manuscript with her.

She gave a fond, bittersweet thought to her old, ratty tome. It was like a good friend that was there to comfort her on tough days, and extol her on happier ones.

It was unusual that it saved her life more than once on her adventure with its inherent badness. However, as bad as it was, it was…_unique_ in its badness, and she soberly realized that she would never see its like again.

And yet, that knowledge began to lift her spirit with expectation. That book was the last part of her old life to be sacrificed, that insecure, amateurish part of her past that she desperately clung to because she feared the self-discipline needed to begin her own transformation.

And like the loss of her virginity, losing that security blanket was painful, too, but, in the end, it was a barrier that had to come down.

In some ways, she was a woman now, and yet still needed to grow into it, just as she was now on the path to becoming a true writer, yet would always learn something new in the endeavor.

Standing up, May dusted herself off, but then felt something light brushing against her leg.

Looking down, she saw that it was the discarded front page of a newspaper, blown on the wind, and after opening it and spying the letterhead, she recognized what it was.

The Quahog Key was Quahog's only black newspaper, first started when it was a mere abolitionists' pamphlet. Once it was given over to the very people it was created to speak out for, it grew by grassroots leaps and bounds.

Now it was one of the few publications to give even Ragg and his ideology fits from time to time.

As May idly scanned the front page, the seeds of inspiration began to take root in her mind.

It was clear to her that she needed to improve her skills dramatically if she ever hoped to be a writer. So the question became, _where _to find the training to better her skills? The answer, it seemed, was in the palm of her hand.

Some writers of note, she had read, had cut their teeth in the world of journalism. Here was a blossoming opportunity to do the same. Perhaps this Quahog Key had an apprenticeship program of some sort. If so, she was determined to enroll.

She still had the energy of youth, and now that she had a proper target to focus her career on instead of Ragg, she would wear the staff of the Key down if they prove…reluctant. If they asked for a resume, she would pointedly tell them that she faced down pirates, slave catchers, bounty hunters, and a murderously racist grandfather in the pursuit of her goal, and reached it. If she could do that, _nothing_ was beyond her.

May folded the front page into a tinier size and tucked it away in her dress to peruse and strategize with later. She prepared to leave when she heard a familiar voice. Glancing to the source, she shook her head in exasperation.

Across the street, Cassy D'amico stood haughtily among the members of her clique, harassing an overweight woman who had the earlier misfortune of scolding Cassy and the others to mind their elders.

"God, what a barge you are," Cassy sniffed. "I didn't know they made dresses in that size. Thing must have more X's than Peter North's resume."

As the frustrated woman walked off to the sound of girls' laughter, Cassy looked around triumphantly and saw May across from her, watching the exchange. With a predatory smile, she sauntered towards her, followed by her sycophants.

"Oh, hi, May! We always keep bumping into each other, don't we?" Cassy said smoothly. "Heard you left town for a while. How come? Were you hiding out from your pimp?"

"You know, Cassy, before I met you, I never knew there was such a thing as rich white trash," May replied without missing a beat. "Learn something new every day."

Cassy fumed at May's supposed impertinence. "I told you, don't call me Cassy."

May assumed the pose of someone hard of hearing. "What was that, _Cassy? _I didn't hear you, _Cassy._ Could you speak up, _Cassy?_"

"What did I just tell you?" Cassy asked May while her friends automatically backed up to give the combatants some room. "I guess I'll just have to teach you some manners, then."

By now, May had begun to tire of this game, not so much because she always found herself in the midst of it, but because she realized that it was just that, a game. And like any game, it had rules and a goal, and sometimes one could beat the game by simply knowing what that goal was.

"Hold on!" May said, raising her hand to stop Cassy's approach. "Before we have one of our usual tussles, I just have to ask, do you _like _rolling around on the ground with girls, or am I just the lucky one?"

The girls surrounding the two stood perplexed and Cassy nervously asked, "What?"

"I mean, just about every time you see me, it's the same routine," May pointed out. "You say something mean, I stand up to you, and the next thing I know, we're both wrestling in the grass, or in the dirt, or on a hardwood floor, or in the mud, or in the pond."

Cassy was stymied. May hadn't thrown a single punch and she already felt as though she had fought for an hour and was losing. Did May…_know? _

"What-What are you trying to say, you...you…"

May shrugged innocently. "I guess what I'm asking is, are you-"

Cassy's guilty demeanor suddenly cracked under May's delicate application of indirect accusation.

"No! It's not what it looks like!" she beseeched her friends, who looked at her performance with equal parts surprise and amusement.

"A tomboy?" asked May. "I mean, if you are, that's okay. I know you rich types have an image to maintain. In fact, I know a place where you can get a nice pair of overalls cheap. It'll be our little secret. Your parents don't have to know."

Cassy slumped in careful relief. May didn't out her to her friends, but she was convinced that May knew of her feelings and was masterfully using them against her.

May put on an innocent smile and waved as she turned to go. "Well, I gotta go, Cassy. I'll see you later, okay...In your _fantasies_." She gave a loud, satisfying laugh as she left Cassy untouched, yet completely beaten and blushing fiercely.

One of her friends glanced to another and said to her, under her breath, "Told you she was coming on too strong."

Governor, Lens and the mighty Smokestack stood around the recently arrived Dewey with a solemn authority he couldn't hope to match, as they took him around the back of Manhattan's West Battery aka Castle Garden once more.

By the side of the building stood a lonely stack of crates outside a strong door leading in, that, for as long as people remembered, always stood there. Taking out the same key he used to operate his control table on the _Plymouth_, Governor opened the door, and the rest followed.

"What is this place?" Dewey asked in hushed tones.

"The last place on Earth you'd ever expect to find hope," Lens said from up ahead.

They entered a dark storeroom, but didn't stray from Governor, as he maneuvered around the stacks of crates and barrels. He finally stopped at an old plaque on the far brick wall that read, "West Battery Cannon Number 8. For the defense and security of New York Harbor. 1812."

His fingers ran along its weathered façade, until he felt the raised bas-relief of three cannon balls stacked in a pyramidal fashion below the dedication. He then pressed the top one, which depressed into the plaque, three times, the lower right one, once and the lower left one, four times.

The muffled sound of a released, heavy clamp was heard behind the plaque's wall, and then a section of it swung out about a few inches free from the rest of the wall.

"What's behind this door is the salvation of our race," Governor said, walking up and staring directly into Dewey's eyes, like a justice-seeking angel. "You must swear to the very core of your being, to the souls of your parents and their parents before them, even to the blood of our ancestors that flows like a river through your veins, that you will keep this secret unto the grave!"

Dewey wondered if Governor, Lens and Smokestack could see the hesitation in his eyes, feel the anxiety that came off of him like heat shimmer.

'_No. This isn't about guilt. I confessed my sins to them, and they _still_ said yes. They _still_ thought me worthy. Damned if I know why. But they just want to make sure I understand the seriousness of what's happenin'. Why else would they honor me with so great an opportunity?'_ he thought, before saying in a shaking voice, "I swear."

Governor clapped his hands and smiled in satisfaction as he walked over and gripped the edges of the false wall.

The doors opened and Deuteronomy was reborn.

NO BLACKS ALLOWED

May stood reading that sign while she took a break from walking back to the quarter of Rough-and-Tumble.

She didn't know why she gravitated back to Fanny's Book Shop, since she wasn't permitted to enter either by law or social force, but she returned regardless to see the beautiful books on display behind the store window. That always gave her comfort.

Maybe she was feeling too happy, too jubilant of the day, and subconsciously, she need a cold splash of water to remind her of what barriers remained for people like her. If so, then message received.

But such a reminder also stoked the furnace in her soul. She had a gift, or, if not a gift, then a desire to be a writer, and she loved to read too much to succumb to the little minds of the world, much less this country. This was not insurmountable.

Already a smile crept up the side of her face, and already this barrier was being bypassed. The family had just come into some money, a small fortune. Through her mother, she could get some new books and writing material. The sky was proving to be the limit, not the sign on the display window.

With gleeful thoughts of her continuance as a fledgling writer, the sign took on a subtle transformation in her mind. She could still read it, but it meant nothing. With every hopeful belief of a future with her making her mark as a successful authoress, the words ceased to have meaning or relevance. Thin air had more substance.

Turning back from the bookstore, May headed across the street and back into the periphery of Rough-and-Tumble. Standing in front of the nearby naval supply store was her friend, Heather, talking to a large man.

As May approached, Heather noticed her and broke from her conversation with the man to run over and give May a relieved hug.

"May, yur back!" she chirped happily. "How's my sister from another mister? Did you get yur folks back?"

"I did, thank goodness," May said with a grin. "I'll tell you all about it, but who's your friend?"

Heather gestured to the man, saying, "This is an old friend of the family. Captain Robert McFinnigan. He just blew in from Europe to stay for a while."

To the captain, she said to him, "Captain, this is May Griffin, the gurl who saved my hash from those hooligans a few days ago."

A bearded, heavy-set man and a son of Erie, he wore a wool nautical cap and was smoking a thin, scrimshaw pipe while he leaned against the brick façade of the store.

Without preamble, he let loose a ripping wail of flatulence.

"Ahh, the foghorn's workin' well today," he said to himself, so proud was he of his sudden music making.

"Hello, Captain McFinnigan," May said to the rotund seaman.

"Ah, May!" he exclaimed. "Brown and beautiful as a mug of stout, ya are! How are ya, lass?"

"I'm fine, sir," she said amiably, easily accepting the Irishman's rather brassy sense of friendliness that could only come from Celtic genes and a lifetime on the sea.

And yet there was something quite extraordinary in the way the captain looked, May found. The resemblance she immediately saw was eerily uncanny.

"Forgive me. This must sound strange for you to hear, but you look very much like my father," May told him.

McFinnigan opened his eyes wide with amusement. "Do I, now? Well, either yur old man's an albino, or ya must've caught me that time when I was sunburned."

May found herself chuckling along with his much bolder, almost forced laugh.

McFinnigan gave a stretch and said, "Ah, lass, that got me thinkin' o' me own papa. I'll never forget the one bit of advice he gave me that I always live with. "There's no problem that can't be solved with a splash of alcohol.""

"Did it ever work?" May found herself asking. Drowning one's sorrows in spirits wasn't really an answer, she knew, but it didn't hurt ask for conversation's sake.

"Well, yes and no. Me father was a proud captain, drank like the fish of the sea he loved so much. Drank so much, in fact, he wound up accidentally being the ship's anchor when he was caught in a bad storm one night. Can't maintain yur sea legs when yur fall-off-yur-ass drunk apparently."

May looked at the captain confused. "Then how does it help?"

"_I_ became captain," McFinnigan said with a loose grin on his red-whiskered face. That inspired a laugh from everyone.

With a chuckle, May said, "You've got an interesting family, Captain."

"Aw, call me, Cap'n, lass," McFinnigan bade. "Besides, I know I faired better than me no-account brother. That foolish, ridiculous moron. God rest his soul."

That piqued May curiosity. "What did he do?"

"Well, he thought himself a businessman, he did. Years of Sunday school put the bright idea in his head to become a bible salesman, and even worse luck, his territory was in your country's Deep South. Sad ta say, but the one thing those people hated more than you lot, were the Irish."

"What happened to him?" May asked. "Did he make any money?"

"Sadly, no. The poor bastard was preachin' the word in a really bad saloon in an even worse part of town, and was killed for his troubles."

"Wow, I'm sorry to hear that," May said, completely riveted to his story, and it wasn't until a few seconds ticked by before the clues fell together in her mind. "Wait a minute. A bible salesman who worked down south? Excuse me, Cap'n, your brother, did he ever have a son with a black woman that he owned because he wasn't paid for his bibles, one time?"

McFinnigan tilted his head in a thoughtful angle, and then said, "Well, lass, if he had, I wouldn't be surprised. Had a taste for the chocolate, he did, and he knew nothin' would get him some better than raising the price of the Good Book, so he could force the owners to give up the lady in question as compensation if they couldn't pay."

May was floored. "You mean he did all that on _purpose_?"

"Yep," the captain nodded. "He was a fool and had crappy business sense, but he could scam for sex with the best of 'em. A true McFinnigan!"

May stood in stunned silence, wondering what to tell Dewey the next time they would meet.

"Well, I must be off. Gotta date over at Madam Quagmire's, and those gurls won't lather up themselves, y'know? Well, actually they could, but then I'd have ta pay more. Good day to ya, lassies," said the captain as he turned towards the heart of the quarter and soon departed.

May pondered, and then, with an understanding smile, said to herself. "Deuteronomy McFinnigan. So _that's_ his name."

May and Heather talked as they walked over to the outdoor market, May relating her high adventure,

"Speakin' o' _high_ adventure," Heather said with a mischievous smile. "Some curious water-filled devices…from _India_ were just off-loaded into town from the dock."

"Sounds interesting," May said to her, as they stopped to talk in front of a greengrocer's vegetable stand. "I'll check them out with you a little later, though. Right now, I'm just feeling a little blue."

"How come?"

"I don't know," May admitted, more to herself, it felt, than to her friend. "I shouldn't, y'know? My family's back, and I've even come to terms with my writing. In fact, one's kinda helped the other, 'cause my whole journey, I decided, is what my next book's going to be about."

"Okay, so why are ya so down, then?" Heather asked.

May sighed. "I guess I really miss Dewey. Having finished talking to his _uncle_ just now, I guess he's still on my mind. I worry about him and I'm just wondering when he'll come back to me."

Heather leaned against the vegetable stand, thinking of something germane to say in response, then said, "When me father left Ireland to find work here in the States, me mother would quietly pine, waitin' for his return. Oh, she would miss him somethin' awful."

"How did your mother manage?" May asked.

"Well, she told me that food really helped her when she was feelin' low."

Idly looking around the market, May didn't think food was going to ease her lovesickness, and certainly couldn't see it, especially if it meant that she would be doing nothing but gaining weight.

"Well, I don't think lunch is gonna get my mind off of Dewey, Heather. Nothing can take his place," May said glumly.

"Ya never know. What was yur Dewey like? What kind o' food would remind you of him?"

May closed her eyes and went silent, deciding to humor her friend with this exercise by running comparisons in her mind on what items of food best described her now long-distance boyfriend.

When the perfect association between Dewey and one _particular_ food popped into her head, at last, May opened her eyes and gave her puzzled, Celtic friend a tight and rather naughty grin.

"Heather, remind me to thank your mother sometime," May said to her.

Maintaining her wicked grin and the thoughts that inspired it, she turned to the greengrocer running the stand.

"Excuse me, sir, I was wondering," she asked. "How much are your cucumbers?"


	22. Chapter 21

_Epilogue-_

"_How much are your cucumbers?" From that day forward, I figured that as long as my faith in myself, my friendship with Heather, and my newly formed Cucumber Fund, didn't diminish, there was nothing on God's green Earth I couldn't accomplish or achieve._

On her bed, Meg sat in quiet exhilaration of the tale she had just finished reading, her eyes wide and her mind totally blown.

Half-buried in piles of faded newspapers, she followed edition after edition, opening and devouring every chapter her ancestor had put to page. Looking across her bedroom, Meg could see that there were still more issues packed away that she hadn't even touched yet.

"Wow! Now _that_ was a history lesson," she said to herself.

"Not a bad tale, if I do say so, myself," a different feminine voice replied.

Meg screamed with a start when she heard it. Apart from herself, the room was empty. "Who's in here? Who are you? Where are you?"

Meg heard the voice saying casually, "Answering in that order, "May Griffin", "your ancestor", and "look in the mirror"."

Meg, extricating herself from her loose cocoon of read newspapers, padded over to the side of her dresser's mirror and cautiously tilted her face in front of it. May's smiling face appeared in its place as they both slowly stepped up to it.

Meg's brain staggered from the reality of what she was seeing right in front of her. "Oh, my God. It's...really you. The girl in the newspapers! You're May! _May Griffin_!_"_

"Hi, Meg."

"A-Are you a ghost?" Meg asked her, wanting to quail away from the looking glass.

May shook her head. "No, just a spirit from the Great Beyond."

"What's the difference?" Meg asked.

May was a little thrown by the question, but answered, regardless. "Well, I didn't stay on Earth with unfinished business when I died. Anyway, I'm here because of you."

Misunderstanding, Meg jabbered, "You are? Wait! Did I disturb your rest or something? I'm so sorry, if I did! I didn't mean to!"

May waved her hands to calm her progeny. "No, no. Quite the opposite. You _called_ me, believe it or not, and I came."

Meg took this news with some suspicion, from what she could remember, she did nothing to suggest this. "How? 'Cause I'm not into all of that black magic stuff. I'm Catholic."

"No, nothing like that," May placated. "It was your need and you protecting my newspapers that did it."

Meg's memory jogged into understanding when May mentioned the newspapers. "So that was _you_ when that guy flipped the coin in the shop today."

"_And_ knocked your boxes over when you put them in your room. You said you needed a subject for your report, so I lent a hand. How did you like my story, by the way?"

Meg had forgotten her fear as she remembered that it was May who had wrote the story, and happily recalled as much of the whirlwind account as she could in one try.

"I couldn't put it down. I loved it. I had no idea you lived such an exciting life back then."

May chuckled, saying, " A little _too _exciting most days, but from one writer to another, I'm glad you liked it, Meg. I hope it was also inspiring, as well."

"It really was!" Meg said. "So, tell me, how famous _did_ you get?"

May posed thoughtfully, then said, "Well, when all was said and done, I did get two of my books published before I got married and moved to Ireland. But, it turned out, I was a better _reporter_ than I thought. People seemed to remember me more for that. Go figure."

Meg's face fell in slight confusion. "I don't get it. How does that help me with my report? Why did you want me to read your story? I thought you became a world-famous writer. I thought you were a big-

"Success?"

"Yes!" Meg exclaimed, sounding almost exasperated.

May sighed from her end of the mirror. Obviously, the future had its share of impulsive youth, as well.

"I was, in my own way," May explained. "But don't mistake success for history, Meg. The fact that my family was able to survive back then and stay together was as much an achievement as ever winning prestige as a writer. Yes, I did find some fame, but I also found love and a family of my own. In a time when things like that were practically denied to us, that was a success, too."

"I understand," Meg fretted. "But is that enough to write a report on it?"

May sighed again and said quietly, "That's for you to decide, Meg. But even if I didn't find fame and fortune in my lifetime, would you _still_ think I wasn't historical important in my own way?"

Meg asked simply. "I don't know. Are you?"

"You tell me," May told her, just as simply. "You are _here_, aren't you?" Then, with a disappointed waver, May faded from Meg's sight.

Seeing her reflection again, Meg sat by her dresser in a proper funk, wondering why their meeting ended so coolly, and pondering what she said, as she moodily looked around the room, from the newspapers on her bed, to her reflexively uncomfortable likeness in the mirror. She wished May would come back to talk to her again, despite the strangeness of the very act.

She tried in frustration to figure out May's cryptic, parting words, but she also felt guilty for how she had talked to her just then. Her ghostly image may have looked like a fellow teen, but May Griffin was still one of her eldest family members by over a century.

Something hit her, just then.

_Eldest…family member…_

Meg wanted to kick herself for not seeing it sooner, and she knew she had her own damned impetuosity to blame.

She ran back to her bed and grabbed the edition that had the last chapter of May's story written on it. Scanning along the last few paragraphs, Meg finally found the clue that had nagged at her a moment ago.

"Dewey McFinnigan," Meg read aloud. Afterwards, she considered the name deeply. "Grandpa was a McFinnigan, too. That means that May married Dewey and started the line of McFinnigans that led up to Grandpa, Dad…and this family. I couldn't be here without her. That what she meant!"

Chagrined, she walked back to the dresser and touched the looking glass gently, wishing even more that May would come back, and fearing it may have been too late.

"I'm so sorry I didn't listen, May. I understand what you were trying to say, now."

Meg took her hand from the mirror and said nothing else, lest she lose the coming muse that rose to meet her, as she grabbed a tablet and pen from a drawer in her dresser, and then went to work in studious silence.

Two weeks later, Meg's class sat around in typically various degrees of general disinterest and conversation, idly waiting for their reports to be returned, after their were graded and proofread.

"Class," the English teacher called out, to get their attention. "You'll all be getting your reports back in a few minutes, but I want to tell you that one report really stood out from the rest, and I want you all to hear it before the end of this class."

Curiosity for this exceptional writer was marginal, at best, but when the teacher called Meg up to the front of the classroom, eyes followed the surprised girl as she got up from her desk.

Her teacher proudly handed Meg her report, which was adorned with circled capital "A" in front, and she stood before the students as they began to quiet down. For some of them, they would consider it light entertainment and a distraction, at the most. For Meg, however, she only hoped what she wrote was enough.

With a steadying breath, she read.

"This is not about some historical figure I researched online. And although the universal desire for equality was, and still is, universal, and not a contest to see whose people suffered the worst, that's not what this is about, either. Instead, I'm going to write about this.

Black History Month, by definition, commemorates historical African-American achievement. When I found out a while ago that I had black ancestors, I went to learn more about my early family, and in doing so, I also found out that they actually started the bloodline that eventually produced me. That was when I discovered what this month really means to me. It meant that I am a part of that history, by virtue of being alive.

Yes, I have other people in my ancestry. Jewish, Irish and German blood flows through me, and I'll be sure to acknowledge each of them in their own respective Heritage Months, but it's the knowledge of my black lineage that brings a lot of things into perspective for me, and helps me tie all the other threads of the tapestry of my life together so well.

If my African-American ancestors didn't have the strength of will to survive their enslavement, and achieve, despite their unwarranted disenfranchisement, I couldn't exist. I couldn't live to enjoy the freedoms and opportunities today that were once parceled out to only a lucky few.

As a result, my original forebears have become an inspiration to me, as great as all the other peoples who make up my family tree. But my admiration for them will always be much deeper and dearer, because they were the first, and to me, that's all the history I need to remember them by.

Perhaps, that's how we should all come to view Black History Month, not as an event shrouded in commercialism, racial politics and debate, but rather as a happy time of enlightenment to not only commemorate the _many_ who gained ground and had their voice heard over the power-hungry few, but also a time for those of black heritage to take a deep breath, and remember the simple courage of their forefathers and mothers that paved the way for their descendants to acknowledge their role in their family histories."

Meg sat back down at her desk amidst the intrigued murmurs of those students who actually listened to her, and quietly waited for the bell to ring.

Meg marched into her bedroom, threw her bookbag on her the floor and dove for the bed, flopping on it with a relaxed sigh.

She rolled over on her back and sighed again, this time more pronounced and troubled. Her well-received paper didn't register on her mind as she stared at the ceiling and looked forlornly through one of her open windows, as she had for about a fortnight.

"What difference does it make if I got a good grade on my report, if it meant I drove a member of my family away? Even if she was a ghost," Meg sulked. "I acted like a spoiled brat to May. I wish I could've let her know how much I appreciated everything she done for me."

"I'm not a ghost, but I think I know."

Meg fought her initial reaction of fright upon hearing someone and not knowing who spoke. She knew who it was, and she leapt out of bed, running to the mirror.

"May!" Meg cried out happily. "Thank God you came back. Listen, I'm sorry I treated you like I did. You're family, and I shouldn't have thought that you would steer me wrong. I should have just taken what you told me to heart and used it gladly. I just didn't think."

May's face, in place of Meg's, in the mirror, gave a forgiving smile and said to her, "That okay, Meg. I was full of piss and vinegar once, myself. The important thing is that you learn from your mistakes, and I think you did."

"Thanks, May."

"So," May cheerily asked, ending the subject. "How did it go? Did your teacher give you a high mark on your report?"

"_Our_ report," Meg graciously corrected. "And I got an A!"

May grinned proudly. "Congratulations! See, _that's _why I wanted to help you out so much. You remind me so much of myself way back when."

"Because I had a talent for writing at a such an early age?"

May shrugged. "Well, that, and because you get picked on. A lot."

Meg looked away slightly from that. "That easy to spot, huh?"

"Spiritually? Yeah, but so was I, so I'm gonna tell you something important that I found out when I was alive."

"What's that?"

"A lighthouse is at its best in the dark."

Not understanding right away, Meg thought it was an odd thing to relay. It almost sounded like a code phrase from a 60's spy film.

"Okay," Meg said uneasily.

Sensing Meg's confusion, May explained. "What I mean is, you're gonna run into adversity, whether it be people out to harm you, or a really big deadline, but if you straighten your back to it and persevere, not only will you be inspired to victory, but you'll inspire it in others."

With an encouraged smile, Meg said to her, "Wow, thanks, uh…What exactly are you? My great-great-great-great grand...aunt? Cousin?"

Chuckling, May bade, "I live in Heaven and even _I _lost track. It would be easier just to call me May, and know that I'm your kin and I love you. If you have any questions about the past, or our family tree, or heck, if you just wanna talk, girl-to-girl, I'm just a mirror away."

Meg felt humbled and grateful by the depth of her newfound connection with this family member. Although no longer living, May was offering herself to be the bridge to Meg's living past. That was a greater gift, Meg thought, than all of the newspapers ever found.

"Thanks, May. You're the best, and thank you for helping me when I really needed it."

May happily waved the compliment aside. "Anything for one of my descendants. Well, I better be off. I promised to meet up with Heather for lunch today. Girl loved machines when she was alive, and I don't want her haunting some nuclear power plant somewhere."

"Wait," Meg said quickly. "Before you go, what kind of advice could you give me as a writer?"

"Hmm…Two things," May pontificated. "One, never write about anything you don't know. Always research your subjects. And two, never bend over in front of a black guy while wearing pajamas."

"How does that help me?"

"It doesn't, but I understand that's how you and that Jerome fella hit it off, that night," May said with a wink.

"Oh, God," Meg muttered while she blushed hot.

"Oh, don't be embarrassed, child," May teased, smiling. "You definitely got _that _from my Mom. Well, I have to go, and remember, don't let the world's detractors get you down. _I_ didn't, and I know _you've_ got a strong heart."

"It runs in the family," Meg said to her with sincerity.

With a proud affection, May nodded to her and said, "Take care, Meg. Knowing that you're in the world made it all worthwhile."

Smiling, Meg heard a bird singing clearly through the open window across her bedroom, and with that cheerful sound, May Griffin contentedly faded into the light of the afternoon.

The End


End file.
